


Impossible To Hate You

by MonoclePony



Series: Chocolate Box [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 12 year relationship it's that slow, 1980s, 1990s, Eddie is a journalist who just wants to go home, Eddie is questioning, Eventual Stanpat, Eventual bike, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meddling Friends, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Protective Eddie, Richie Tozier is OUT and PROUD, Richie Tozier is a wild LGBT rights activist, RomCom AU, Romantic Comedy, Stan does drag and slays, Timeskips, When Harry Met Sally AU, anger issues, self deprecating Richie, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 67,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: Richie makes a ‘rewind’ motion with his hands, complete with sound effects. “What I mean is it can’t happen because it’s the classic problem.”“What the fuck is the classic problem?”“That it is impossible to be friends with someone who you either find attractive or wants to bone the same kinda people you do.”For a moment, Eddie is too shocked to speak. When he gets the ability to speak back, he manages to compile his thoughts into the most concise way possible – he says, “That’s bullshit.”“No man, it’s the truth! Two gay guys can’t be friends because they will always wonder what it would be like to bang each other. Thus, the friendship is doomed to fail. It’s like… science or some shit. Truly.”----------This is what Eddie Kaspbrak is told during his journey from Maine to New York at 21, from a man he's only just met and already cannot stand. What follows is 12 years of near misses, coming together and finding yourself, as well as realising that sometimes, loving your friends isn't as bad as everyone says it is. And if it's Richie Tozier, then you're pretty much screwed.A multichap reddie romcom fic, because the author is just that indulgent.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Chocolate Box [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824754
Comments: 35
Kudos: 65





	1. Part one: University of New England, Maine, 1986

**Author's Note:**

> So this is (hopefully) going to be shorter than Driftwood, just because it's a fun project! It's part of a series I'm going to do with other romcoms I love with other ships, so I hope you enjoy it! I'm bringing in a bit more than the original story, so it's not going to be a complete play-by-play of it.
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are really appreciated so as well as on here, you can also hit me up on my NEW Twitter fic account, @monoclepony or my personal @purple_tealeaf, either is fine :) Enjoy!

University of New England, Maine, 1986.

Eddie wants it on record that he never wanted a travel buddy in the first place.

He’s already calculated the route from campus to the modest yet respectable apartment he has a deposit down on, as well as getting his mustard-coloured, scrap-salvaged ’71 Plymouth Cricket in good working order for the trip. He knows what he’s doing, thanks. He’s got it all sorted, and no you cannot help.

Because Eddie Kaspbrak is 21 years old, he’s graduating college with honours and he’s going to live in New York city: what else does he need?

But when he sits down and actually thinks about it, he _does_ need money. He blew the last of his on his apartment deposit and fixing up the Plymouth. He needs it for fuel, and maybe for food. Definitely for food. And okay, _fine,_ maybe some company on the drive down wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Moving to a new city knowing at least one person is just common sense.

His mom would always say, when he first went home for the holidays, that he’s better off on his own. All he needed was her to take care of him when he was a kid, and it’s the same now. That he’s just a lonely kind of boy. Eddie often wonders if you can be born lonely; you’re certainly born screaming and scared… but alone?

If you can, then maybe that’s what _he_ is. He used to think it was more like a disease he caught somewhere along the line; something that squirms around under his skin and stops people from talking to him too long, in case they catch it too. He knows better now, obviously, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it from time to time. 

Eddie stopped going home after Freshman year. The phone calls and the letters were enough.

So the reason he starts asking around for anyone else moving to New York is partly a big ‘fuck you’ to Mom ( _not Mommy never again Mommy_ ) and partly a ‘fuck you’ to himself. Like driving for seven hours with some other person is going to prove some kind of point.

He doesn’t have to search for long. Sure enough, someone from his stats class knew a guy. Moving to New York, needed a ride and could pay his way a little. It’s perfect. Almost too perfect. Eddie agrees anyway, because otherwise neither of them are gonna be going anywhere.

So this is why Eddie is currently sat in his car nursing a slight hangover, watching some fucking _dude_ with a mop for a head macking his girlfriend like her mouth holds all the mysteries of the lesser known universe. Before 10am, and caffeine. This is something Eddie is going to have to compartmentalise later.

He lets out a polite cough. He’s furtively ignored. He sighs.

He keeps his eyes on the dude in question, his new acquaintance for the trip, as he does an excellent impression of an Alien face-hugger, giant hands splayed like starfish against her face. Fuck, Eddie can’t even _see_ her face. The guy is so tall he has to bend his knees in order to remain only a few inches taller than his wiling victim. Ridiculous. Who has to be that tall. What the fuck. The mop of hair is dark and all over the place – probably from the girlfriend running her hands through it – and Eddie can distinctly pinpoint a sighting of the largest fringe known to man. Christ. He can also only spot one ratty sports bag at the guy’s feet for luggage, with some sewn-on patches he can’t see properly from his seat, and a plastic bag dangling from the crook of his elbow. Huh. Travelling light, Eddie supposes. They’re both worn and sloppy, similar to the way the guy is dressed; a lumpy hoodie and a pair of worn jeans with tears in the knees that definitely weren’t done intentionally makes Eddie wonder if he’s accidentally agreed to pick up a hermit. But he can’t judge the guy completely; he’s dressed pretty messy himself.

What he can judge him for, though, is the way that he is still. Kissing. His girlfriend. He coughs again, but there’s no reaction.

Eddie has to basically choke on spit in order for them to pull apart.

When they do, the guy’s eyes snap open and immediately fall on him. His mouth coils into a surprised smile.

And Eddie’s initial reaction, visceral and clear, is: _oh my god. I want to physically fight this man._

“Oh, hi there!” the girlfriend waves. Now she doesn’t have anyone stuck to her, he can tell that she’s a pretty girl. A little plain, maybe, but pretty. “Are you Eddie?”

He smiles thinly and puts up a hand. “That’s me.”

She pats the chest of Eddie’s new travel buddy with a smile. “This is Richie Tozier. Richie, this is Eddie, uh...Kap-check?”

“Kaspbrak,” Eddie corrects. 

Tozier nods an acknowledgement. “S’up, man.”

_Oh he did **not** just use a peace sign unironically, fucking hell. _

“Stick your bags in the back,” Eddie instructs, gesturing over his shoulder in case this dunderhead doesn’t know what ‘in the back’ means.

“Cool.”

Eddie watches him slope over, sling his bag haphazardly into the backseat and slam the door shut. The force of it makes the Cricket shake. He doesn’t look Eddie in the eye; it’s an obvious avoidance, like he thinks Eddie will take it as a threat display and launch himself out of the car at him, foaming at the mouth. He isn’t wrong.

He goes back to the girlfriend, puts a hand to her face like it’s just that easy, and kisses her forehead with an audible smacking sound. Eddie nearly gags.

“Call me?” she asks, and the crooked grin is back so quick it nearly makes Eddie snap the whole wheel off in his hands.

“Love you,” Tozier croons.

“I love _you_!” the girl replies, delighted.

He leans in – he’s leading _with_ his tongue, fucking gross – and yep, they’re kissing again. Tonguing. Sucking face. Oh _hell_ no, they’re already 10 minutes behind schedule.

Eddie takes the initiative and lays his hand on the horn. And keeps it there. The noise blares out over the quad and causes all remaining students and parents to look in their direction, startled. The lovebirds jump apart like Eddie’s given them an electric shock – and this time, Tozier looks right at him.

He says something, but it’s drowned out in the wail of the Cricket’s horn. Eddie isn’t fucking letting up until the fucking asshole gets in the car. The hell with people staring. Tozier tries to say something again, but no joy. Eddie leans over and cups a hand to his ear innocently, just to be a shithead. “ _I’m sorry_ ,” he mouths, to fully complete the impression that he’s a giant fucking asshole, “ _I can’t, I can’t quite hear you_.” He’s infuriated to see an amused smile stretch its way across his travel buddy’s face. Ugh, this fucking guy.

Once he puts a hand on the passenger door, Eddie eases up on the one-man caterwaul. He raises a brow, waiting. Already regretting. Mentally sifting through the best spots to punt Tozier out of a moving vehicle. God, he’s not even stepped foot in the car yet and he’s already thinking about abandonment. He needs to give him a shot, at least.

The guy pokes his head into the car, shoulders blocking out all sunlight for a brief moment. “Permission to enter, Bette Davis?”

Eddie glares at him, but since it isn’t a ‘no’, the guy apparently takes it to mean, ‘come on in, put your feet on the dash, mess with the seats, why not?’ since that’s precisely what he does. Eddie drums his fingers on the wheel as Tozier leans half of his stupid-long body out the window to blow his girlfriend a final kiss. There’s such thing as overkill, Eddie thinks to himself. _Bitter,_ he adds a beat later.

The girlfriend giggles and pretends to catch the imaginary kiss Tozier sends her way, so naturally Eddie starts the engine and pulls away before they can start singing a duet or some shit.

They rustle and bump along the campus path until they’re out on the road, and that’s it. They’re stuck together now, like it or not, until New York. Unless, of course, Eddie really does decide to dump Richie Tozier at whichever roadside diner they stop at.

To his credit, he isn’t a bad passenger. He stays quiet for a while, unpeeling an orange from the plastic bag he carries with him with deft, careful fingers. He’s like a child’s drawing of what they think a grown up looks like; he’s all out of proportion, from his bandy legs to his one-size-too-small Garfield shirt. The fabric is stretched torturously across his chest and stomach, the cartoon cat emblazoned there now warped and distorted into an Eldritch nightmare. Eddie keeps driving. And a mile or two down the road, Richie Tozier speaks.

“So, what’s the skedge, dude?”

Eddie doesn’t dignify him with even a look. “Skedge?” he parrots, spitting the bastardised word out like a bad taste.

“Scheduola, my man. A schedule for how this gig is gonna play out.” He’s picking all the white bits off the orange and throwing them out the window. Eddie tries to forget he saw it. “Betty said you got a hard-on for organisation, so I assumed you had a printed itinerary somewhere.”

“How wonderful of Betty to warn you about a very sensible habit I have,” Eddie replies curtly. “She failed to tell me her ex was so…” He steals a glance at him. “…loquacious.”

“That’s a big word, can you spell it?” Tozier shoots back. Eddie is on fire. “And psh, Betty wishes she was my ex. But she’s not. Obviously.”

“How in any way is that obvious?” Eddie asks.

Richie Tozier stops mid-peel of his orange, half of his hair in his face and hiding the full blast of his incredulous stare. “Because I’m gay, man.”

Just like that, a shot ricochets up Eddie’s back. It’s the same feeling he gets when he sees two men holding hands, often in the safety of a bar or club reserved for such things. It’s a sense of being on the outside looking in, a jolt of happiness and familiarity that _yes that’s a thing I like doing too look at you doing the thing good for you_ coupled with a crushing inner monologue that tells him he doesn’t belong there. And this fucking guy is also into guys? What the fuck kind of Sesame Street Tarzan _is_ he?

“Uh, that’s fine right? I didn’t jump in the wrong car? Not about to get hate-crimed?”

Eddie shakes himself. _Right, right, focus_. “Don’t joke about that fucking shit, that’s never fucking funny” he hisses. “It’s fine, obviously it’s fine,” he adds, with maybe a little more bite than the guy really deserves.

He visibly relaxes despite the tone. “The joke is a coping mechanism, you should know that about me if we’re going to be spending the next couple hours in close contact,” he says. “And I mean, duh, ‘course it’s fine, you’re gay too.”

Eddie nearly crashes the car at this brand-new information. “W-what?”

“Betty told me,” Tozier explains, like she told him as simple as the weather forecast. “That’s why she thought it was a good match, me and you driving together.” He falters at Eddie’s clearly stricken look. “She said you were out, but if you’re not-”

“I’m questioning,” he snaps, hot panic flooding through him. “A-and I’m out. Sorta.” _If ‘sorta’ means keeping it as under wraps as is physically possible and banishing the act of kissing boys to the dark or the confines of his dorm_. “Anyway, if you’re gay then what the fuck was that?”

“Eh?”

“That. The fucking…” Eddie makes a few unintelligible gestures with his free hand, “ _girl_ back there?”

“Oh, Carrie?” Tozier returns to his peeling now he senses the coast is clear. “That was a favour.”

“A favour?! Sticking your tongue down her throat was a favour?!”

“Her mom’s around.”

Eddie gawps at him. “S-sorry, you’ve lost me. She wanted her mom to see you? The fuck kinda fetish is that?”

“You been living under a rock? Carrie’s been with Sue Snell since Freshman year,” his passenger answers, popping an orange segment into his mouth. “But her very devout Mom would kill her if she found out.”

“So,” Eddie splutters, “So you just-”

“Made out with a lesbian to fool a religious and unaccepting parent, yeah. It’s a code.” He gives him a toothy grin. “Hey, Tozier pro-tip: do not go to your grave without getting kissing lessons from a lesbian, dude, it is world-changing.”

Eddie is still reeling from the revelation that this apparently very gay guy just kissed a very gay girl to appease her Catholic mother, and the kissing comment hits too late to make much of an impact. “I’ll bear it in mind,” he answers, a little bemused. “And my name is Eddie, not ‘man’ or ‘dude’, or… what was it, ‘Bette Davis’?”

“It’s the eyes,” Tozier explains, gaze returning to his orange. “You got them big ole eyes.” When Eddie doesn’t say anything, quietly seething, he adds, “Reading ya loud and clear, Eds.”

“Okay, no. That is worse and definitely not my name.”

“It’s Eds or Dee, and you don’t seem like a Dee man.”

“Please stop talking.”

Unfortunately, snark seems to be the thing that activates the ON switch for this guy, and then he won’t shut up. He immediately launches into what is essentially a Q&A gameshow where Eddie is the sole player and topic. He’s immediately out of his depth. He’s never had anyone who is that fascinated by him, but apparently that’s just what this guy is like.

Eddie’s answers are simple and short: he comes from a small, conservative town he never wants to return to, he’s an only child, he wants to be a writer but he knows it won’t make him money so he’ll probably be a journalist, and he finished his degree in Psychology top of his class. They’re the usual ice breaker questions, and Eddie makes painfully sure to give only the bare bones to the stranger sitting beside him. It’s all he needs to know. Call Eddie cautious, but he isn’t going to go pouring his heart out to some dude just because he happens to be gay too. Or questioning. Whatever.

Eddie isn’t surprised at all to learn his passenger has less qualms about something as important as personal security. When he turns the questions back on him, Tozier delightfully informs him that he is, of all things, an Art History major (“See Eds, I’m stupid deep and I’m now qualified to tell you what a painting is”), hosted the Open Mic nights at the campus bar and fought for an LGBT Society to start up, despite the constant lobbying and distinct lack of interest. Eddie can’t remember seeing him specifically, but he can remember walking past the admissions building and seeing a small bundle of students waving rainbow banners and holding ‘WE EXIST’ signs whilst shouting and singing at the top of their lungs. He hates to admit that he found them profoundly irritating – but then again, he finds a lot of people profoundly irritating.

“See, it’s not that there aren’t kids like us out there,” Tozier explains, crossing one leg over the other as he talks, “it’s that they’re too scared to be out, y’know. Don’t blame ‘em, but it was worth a shot.”

So maybe he isn’t as much of a dudebro asshole as Eddie thought. Maybe.

It’s hard to tell, with the way Tozier is. He seems relaxed now in the car, his limbs all over the place like he’s claiming it as his home for the foreseeable future – but that has to be bullshit. No one is this calm in a strange car, with a strange guy driving them. Unless it’s only Eddie that feels that way. The thought chills him and makes him mad all at the same time. There are layers to this guy, this Richie Tozier – there always are. But Eddie doesn’t have time to peel back those layers. It’s a short trip, in the long scheme of his life. He isn’t sure how he feels about being lumped in with the collective ‘us’ that was mentioned either – it’s a bit too close, hits a bit hard, so he says nothing and hopes Tozier drops it.

Tozier does not drop it.

“So, wanna share your coming out story?”

Eddie turns his head so fast he’s sure his neck snaps. “I really, really don’t,” he grits out.

“Aw c’mon. Bet it’s better than mine. Mine’s hilarious.”

“I don’t want to hear that either.”

“But Eds…”

He loses his temper, just a bit. “Don’t call me that! Fucking Christ, what does it matter how I came out or who I fucked or what sexual positions I prefer? It’s just a… a thing. That’s part of me. But not all of me. That’s it.”

Tozier looks a little overwhelmed at the sudden spout of information, but once he’s recovered he leans over and squints at him. “I didn’t ask about your sex life, though we are so going there later.” He pauses. “You trying to tell me that people shouldn’t care about who they wanna bump uglies with?”

Eddie chooses to ignore ‘bump uglies’ for the sake of his mental health. “I’m saying that it doesn’t have to mean _everything_ ,” he says, exasperated. “If someone is that obsessed with his own… uh, orientation, then he’s either protecting himself from something else or compensating for a severe lack of fucking personality.”

It’s too strong, he knows it the minute it’s out of his mouth. Shit, he always does this; he gets ahead of himself, frames observations like insults when he never means to. He readies himself for the polite request to be dropped off at the next junction and take his chances as a hitchhiker.

He’s more surprised, then, when a braying laugh bursts out of Tozier like a popped balloon. “Wow, you really are a psych man, Bette Davis! I feel analysed.”

“I told you I was.” Eddie flushes. “A-anyway, I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did.” He looms close, propping his chin in his hand like he’s posing for a photograph. “Go on, then. Which am I?”

Eddie blinks, wrongfooted. “Uh.”

“Protecting myself? Or lacking a personality?” His eyes glint. “I’m waiting. Mmm yeah, psychoanalyse me good.”

“Not a chance,” Eddie snorts, eyes flicking up to his rear-view mirror.

“Huh. Cheerful little fella, aren’tcha?” He reaches over to ruffle his hair.

He ducks out of his reach with a scowl and mutters, “it’s genetic,” like that’ll shut him up. He knows by this point it won’t but it’s worth a try.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Huh, well now Eddie’s furious. He is average fucking height for adult males in the US, he’s checked multiple times in studies specifically about it, but since he got put in the puberty equivalent of a vice and got stretched he’s a bit… well. Skinny, if he’s being nice. Weedy and girly, if he’s quoting specific childhood bullies. Cute isn’t a compliment, it’s ammunition. That’s partly why he went and grew the scrappy beard…goatee…thing. And why his clothes are a bit big. But there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Richie Tozier anything close to that.

“I’m not fucking cute, cut it out,” he snipes.

“You so are, you’re like a baby beat poet.” This _fucking_ guy. “Where’s the sock hat and the cigarettes?”

Eddie wants to argue back, but instead he betrays himself by saying, “they’re in the back,” causing another of those braying laughs.

It seems to be enough to move the conversation onto another topic though, to Eddie’s relief. “So, you wanna be a journo in the big city?” Tozier asks, finishing off his orange and, to Eddie’s horror, flinging the whole orange peel out of the window.

“Ye-es,” he says, keeping an eye on the rather empty stretch of road ahead. He isn’t sure if it’s somehow a trick question. “That’s the plan.”

“You like plans, huh?” Tozier reaches into his bag and pulls out… another orange. Jesus Christ. Is he a recent scurvy patient or something, who eats fucking oranges on a road-trip? “Methodical. Organised.”

Eddie frowns. Is that some sort of backhanded compliment? “It’s good to know where you’re headed,” he replies, a little defensively.

“Ah, but then you’re only interested in what you get _out_ of something. You don’t notice the journey.” Richie Tozier taps the side of his nose like he just dropped a pearl of wisdom at Eddie’s feet, and Eddie stares at him, incredulous.

“Journeys are important. Half the fun of getting where you want. Take me, for instance: I, my good Bette, am what’s known as the Great Pretender. I put on voices, I collect stories, I get some good chucks outta doing it too. But I don’t have a clue where I’m headed. Live in the moment, else I’ll be too worried about being a specific kind of person and I’ll die not knowing who the hell I am.”

Oh god, Eddie is trapped in a car with a gay self-help book and there are no exits, mayday mayday. He asks, “So you have no plan once you get to New York? None at all?”

The guy smiles, bright as the fucking sun. “Nope. Got money, know a couple folks. I’ll see where it takes me.”

Eddie expels his breath in a heavy ‘whoosh’. “You are a walking panic attack.”

Tozier smiles again, pleased, like Eddie gave him the biggest gift. “Having a plan is my personal brand of panic attack man, don’t slate it. If I don’t plan, I don’t have expectations. Can’t fail if you don’t know what you’re supposed to be working towards.”

Eddie has probably been in Tozier’s proximity for too long, but that? That could make a bit of sense. An ounce. A microbe. Or, he muses as the sun sinks fat and red on the horizon, it’s time for them to swap drivers.

* * *

Two hours later, Eddie stops even _pretending_ to be polite.

“It is not!”

“Yes it is!”

“Hey, fuck you, it is not!”

“What, the beach volleyball scene isn’t enough for you?”

“So they play volleyball! They’re stationed near a beach!”

“Eddie.” Fucking hell, it’s the first time Richie Tozier uses his actual fucking name and it’s in the middle of a dumb argument. “You need your club badge revoked if you don’t think it is the gayest fucking movie ever.” He only has one hand on the wheel, but Eddie gave up on that battle an hour ago. He watched him fiercely for the first few miles, but once he proved he was capable of driving the only thing close to Eddie’s first-born child, he let up.

He sinks into the passenger seat, arms folded and glaring at him. “The whole story,” he says with bite, “is about training to be a pilot in the Navy. That’s the straightest thing ever. And it’s nothing to do with Maverick making friends or fucking Charlie, which is totally unethical by the way since she’s his _teacher,_ it’s about getting over living in his hero dad’s shadow and getting closure so he can be the best pilot in the class!” He’s gesturing with his hands, stabbing the air with them, slashing sometimes too. He can’t help it. Tozier definitely noticed when he started, and he’s watching now. His eyes follow every time Eddie frames his argument with his hands, like he’s boxing the words in, but he says nothing. A part of Eddie is grateful. Another part wants to kick his teeth in. It’s a complicated emotion.

“It’s about _excellence_ and _skill_!” Eddie reiterates.

“Yeah, Maverick’s excellence in skillfully sucking Iceman’s dick.”

“Oh my god, no.”

Richie pulls off the road and parks up in the diner Eddie chose on recommendation alone, but he clearly isn’t going to let it go. It seems to be a running theme with him. “Iceman and Maverick were boning,” he announces loudly to the otherwise sparsely populated parking lot, like he’s stating facts – which he sure as fuck isn’t.

“No, they’re not! Maverick is boning Charlie, if he’s boning anyone!” Eddie protests.

“Look, if you think the way Iceman looks at Maverick when he says he’s dangerous isn’t fraught with gay as fuck sexual intent then no one has ever looked at _you_ with gay as fuck sexual intent.”

Eddie gapes at him as the engine is turned off, before rooting around feverishly for his wallet. “Plenty of people _look at me_ ,” he snaps, but this one’s personal. Fuck him, seriously. “What the fuck kinda statement is that.”

“Not the way Val Kilmer looks at Tom Cruise. You, my friend, have never been Kilmered.”

“Oh and I suppose you have?” Eddie demands as they step out of the car.

“Oh yeah. Tons of times.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Plenty want on this, I’m a closet case’s wet dream.”

Eddie stops short. Okay, that’s… a lot. Plenty to unpack there. _Not enough time_ , Eddie reminds himself. “Yeah, well, so am I. Looked at, I mean.”

“Okay, fine. So you might get looked at,” Tozier relents, making a beeline for the door, “but I bet you aren’t the most, uh, tactile person. You’re like one of those ornaments in a Thrift store: you can look, but don’t you dare even think about touching.”

“No, no, that’s where you’re wrong.” Eddie follows him, catches him up and – oh, holy _shit_ he really is tall, maybe he isn’t going to fight him after all. “I’m perfectly fine with being touched.”

“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Didn’t think you would.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “You got a vibe.”

“A vibe?” Eddie echoes.

“Mmhmm.”

“What kind of vibe?”

“Mmmdoesn’tmatter.”

“What _kind_?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me!”

They get to the door of the diner before Tozier turns back and says, without a hint of a joke in his voice, “You have the vibe that you’d bite someone’s dick off,” before swinging the door open and leaving Eddie, open-mouthed, on the other side.

* * *

Richie doesn’t wait for him; instead, he saunters right on down the catwalk of waitresses and claims a booth at the back. He’s sat down, humming a tune under his breath, by the time the little whirlwind that is Eddie Kaspbrak shoves his way through the door and steps inside, face pinched with anger.

“I haven’t bitten anyone’s dick off!” he shouts, and thank god the diner’s pretty much empty.

The few patrons that are halfway through day’s special look up, drop their cutlery to their plates and stares at him. He looks both furious and terrified. Richie smirks.

Eddie stands there, the eye of the storm, and throws up his arms like he’s daring someone to start something, and shouts, “That’s my GIRLFRIEND’S job,” like _that_ smooths it all over. Richie can’t stop the titter that escapes. It’s like watching a small bird puff its feathers up to look bigger, scarier. He wasn’t lying before – Eddie is cute. Maybe he’ll tell him that again, if he gets the balls. At the moment, the guy looks as though he wants to crush said balls, so he’ll keep it to himself.

He opens his menu in front of his face, a makeshift barricade as Eddie sits opposite him. He has plenty of choice for seating, so the fact he sits with him makes Richie think that he hasn’t quite alienated him yet. Eh. Still time.

“I haven’t bitten anyone’s dick off,” Eddie repeats in a savage whisper, ducking around his menu with such wide eyes it makes Richie stifle a laugh. This guy is fun. He wants to keep him. “I have had plenty of good, normal sex, thanks.”

“Good, normal sex huh? Sure sounds hot.”

“It was!” Eddie shoots back. “It was very hot, actually.”

“Uh huh.”

The waitress arrives and puts a pin in their conversation for the moment. Richie orders a sandwich of some description, and he’s amused to find that when she turns to his new best friend, Eddie takes a deep breath as though bracing himself.

“So I’m allergic to soy, egg, gluten, shellfish, ginger, basil and I will realistically die if I so much as look at a cashew so I’ll have something without bread or garnish just in case and scratch anything fried in oil because I’m not allergic but I am intolerant so what would you suggest?”

He says this all in a single breath, rattling it out like machine gun fire. The poor girl just stares at him, fingers tapping against her pad. “Um, salad?”

Eddie sighs. “If that’s the best you can do. But no cucumber.”

She takes the menus from them and leave, no doubt on her way to spit in Eddie’s food. Eddie doesn’t notice, apparently, until he catches the look on Richie’s face. “What?”

Richie leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “Nothing.”

“Allergies are serious, man.”

“Just… if you said all that shit any faster you would’ve exploded.”

Eddie gives a bad-tempered huff and takes to examining his nails. They’re immaculate, like the rest of him. The thing about Eddie is that he’s the sort of guy Richie would’ve passed in the corridor without turning his head once. He’s neat and pressed, even when he’s trying to slob it; it’s a conscious and practiced effort, something that comes to easy to everyone else but apparently not to Eddie Kaspbrak. So sure, he’s neat. He’s also piqued Richie’s interest.

_Thank you Sandy, for setting me up with this sweet, sweet identity crisis._

Anyway, back to business.

“With whom?” Richie prompts.

Eddie looks up, quizzical now enough time’s passed. “Huh?”

“With whom did you have this great, normal sex life?”

To his delight, Eddie turns a tasteful shade of pink. “Like hell am I telling you that.”

“Why not? I’m a gay dude, you’re a gay dude-”

“Questioning!”

“- so what’s comparing notes between fellow players?”

“It’s personal,” Eddie hisses. “And I’m not a fucking player.”

Richie shrugs. “Aight. Don’t tell me.”

Ah, reverse psychology, the most beautiful of all techniques. All he has to do is wait. He gets coffee. He sips it through pursed lips, taking in the diner’s peeling décor as he feels Eddie stew with it, the knowledge of what he suddenly wants to say very much weighing him down. He knows Eddie wants to talk about it; he keeps offering false starts, opening his mouth then closing it a little like a fish at an aquarium. It’s odd, Richie thinks, that he shut down the Coming Out topic cold but is heavily debating the merits of divulging his sex life. Either it isn’t as personal as he made out before, or his Coming Out story is the stuff of nightmares.

 _Now who’s psychoanalysing,_ he thinks.

It takes until his mug is half empty for Eddie to break. When he does, he drops the salt shaker he’s been idly playing with onto the table with a clatter, loud enough for Richie to sit to attention. “Okay, fuck, if you must know-”

“Oh my dear Eds, I absolutely must,” Richie preens.

“- it was, uh, Ben. Mears,” he finishes, a glare slicing through his blush.

Richie lets that sink in for a moment. Then he blows out his cheeks in a heavy breath, shaking his head. “Oh, sweetheart, no.”

“What do you mean, no?!” Eddie’s on the defensive in an instant, spitting like a cobra.

“Eds, my doll, there are exactly three guys on campus who drive our side of the road and they are not good at sex. Mears is as far away from ‘great’ as is humanly possible.”

Eddie splutters wordlessly for a minute, and Richie lets him get it out of his system. “I had a good time!” he says defiantly. “Besides, how the hell do _you_ know they’re all bad at it?”

Oh man, was this kid for real? “Take a wild guess,” he answers, taking another gulp of his coffee.

The face journey Eddie embarks upon is one to behold. It changes from the defensive anger to confusion, deep thought and finally arrives at dawning realisation and – dare he say it – disgust. “Oh my _god,_ you really-?”

“There we are.”

“ _All_ of them?!”

“No need to clutch your pearls, it’s not like I screwed a whole football team is it? Although if there were that man-OW.”

“This is a public place!” Eddie hisses.

“Yeah,” Richie says, rubbing his arm with a wince, “that you just stood in and shouted that you bite dicks.”

“I said I didn’t bite dicks, fuck off.”

“Anyway, what am I supposed to do, huh? We got a limited pool of takers, gotta try ‘em all.” He grins. “And don’t sweat it, really, me and Benny hooked up Sophomore year. Way before you. Ancient history, basically. But if I remember right the guy needed a road map to find the prostate so unless he became some kinda sex god after me I really doubt-”

“We dated,” Eddie cuts in, a little cowed, “for three months. So, uh… yeah.”

“Quantity over quality then, gotcha,” Richie clarifies, causing an eyeroll from Eddie. He pauses. “How come you broke up?”

Eddie bristles like a ruffled hedgehog. “Jesus, do you always ask such personal questions?”

“It’s a serious medical condition, Eds, and you didn’t answer my question.”

Eddie flashes him a dangerous look, but when he raises his brows in a silent prompt, he says, “because I wanted something… real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie sighs. “It all just seemed so… surface level, you know? We didn’t really talk all that much, we just…” He makes a gesture that couldn’t look further from ‘sex’ but Richie understands through the context clues.

“Gotcha, gotcha,” he nods sagely.

Eddie pauses, musing on something. When he speaks again, it comes out in one single breath. “Plus I got bored of hearing how my dick was too big oh hey there s’cuse me could I get a water refill please?”

Eddie addresses the last part of this to the stunned waitress who has clearly been eavesdropping on them. She scrambles away to the nearest jug as Richie chokes on his coffee. When he resurfaces, he catches the tail end of Eddie’s smirk. He’s so fucking pleased with himself, he’s actually vibrating in his seat trying to hold in his sniggers, and Richie just watches, a little shocked himself. Because Eddie Kaspbrak has a sense of fucking humour, and that’s the best news ever.

When Richie finally laughs himself, Eddie lets his own loose in small, conscious giggles – _giggles –_ that fall over their table like light rain. And Richie thinks, _huh. This guy could be okay._

* * *

They’re counting up the totals for their food when it happens. Eddie is adamant that they pay for their own stuff since Richie ate like a carthorse and he got nothing but a limp salad and something that may have been yoghurt in a past life. He’s got the check in his hand and is working out what they each owe, plus tips, on a napkin. He sticks his tongue out when he’s thinking, a bad habit from when he was a kid but it helps him concentrate, damnit.

His thoughts keep drifting, however, to the guy sat opposite him. Laughing was a mistake, for sure. But Tozier was so goddamn _delighted_ by his dick joke that Eddie couldn’t help himself. He’s impressing him, he knows he is, and he likes the buzz of validation he’s getting from that. The bar isn’t fucking high, but he doesn’t pay attention to that – he just basks in the moment. He likes impressing people, shocking people. He likes it when their eyebrows go up to their hair and they goggle at him because _little Eddie Kaspbrak can do the thing and do it well_ and tell him so. It’s a complex, he knows it is, and he’s working on it.

He’s almost done with the check when he happens to glance up – and meets Tozier’s eye. He blinks. The guy is resting his head in his palm, elbows on the table like some kind of gremlin, and he’s gazing at him with this dumb fucking smile on his face. His fringe is in his face again, falling over his eyes. Eddie wants to chop it off. As he stares, Tozier blows it off his face with an even broader smile. It’s unsettling. No one should have that much fringe. Fuck him.

“What?” Eddie asks, irritation swelling in him already.

“You’re not bad looking, you know.”

All equations and numbers screech to a halt, then vanish entirely from his head. “Gee, thanks,” he forced out.

“No, I mean it. You’re attractive. Empirically. Especially when you laugh, or when you’re concentrating.” Richie’s smile remains so sunny and carefree and so obviously serious that Eddie wishes he could throttle it. _No, don’t look at me like that, don’t you fucking dare, I can’t be looked at like that, stop it._

It’s an old reaction, covered in dust and as outdated as the last library book Eddie tried to take back to the college library for credit, but it still kickstarts his fight or flight response in the worst way possible.

“Thinking suits you,” Richie adds.

And that’s it – third strike, Eddie’s outta there.

He throws down what he owes and, wide-eyed and skin sticky and too tight, he rolls his eyes and leaves the diner like he’s not trying to fight down a massive panic attack. “Hey!” he hears Tozier call after him, but he doesn’t turn back. “Hey, what gives?”

“YOU are what gives!” he says once they’re outside, spinning around to prod him hard in the chest, above the distorted Garfield on his shirt. “What kinda shit are you trying to pull, huh?”

Tozier throws his hands up in surrender. “No shit being pulled here! I just said you were attractive in the right light, that’s not exactly a glowing review, calm the fuck down.”

“You said it in front of the whole diner! Are you insane?!”

His heart is pounding. It feels painful, like it’s beating against a bruise that’s not fully healed.

Richie frowns. “Gee, I guess I got carried away, don’t get a stick up your ass about it. I thought you were out.”

“I’m out but I’m not stupid!” Eddie shoots back. He got too relaxed in there, forgot where he was for the shortest time, and now he needs to rein it in. Bring it back. Remember who he is, how he has to act to get places. “And for the last fucking time, I’m-”

“Questioning,” Tozier finishes. “I get it. A three month relationship with Ben the DestructoDong is bound to raise questions for you.”

Eddie goes cold. “Oh, don’t be a fucking asshole,” he says, turning on his heel and marching to the car, fingers fumbling for the keys. _Gotta run gotta run fighting didn’t work so gotta run._

“Well,” Tozier begins conversationally behind him, “They say you are what you-”

“Oh my god, _don’t._ Let’s just… get going, okay?”

He reaches the Cricket as Eddie opens the door. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? That was a dick move, you can question away until you find whatever answer you need,” he says, leaning against the door as Eddie gets in. “And I wasn’t going to jump you or anything, I’m just stating a fact-”

Eddie slams the door and Tozier launches forward, smacking his face on the car. He swears. There’s blood. Eddie immediately feels bad.

One first aid kit later, Eddie has Richie Tozier sat on the hood of the Cricket pinching the bridge of his nose whilst he cleans up a ferocious nosebleed with tissue stolen from the diner. “Jeez, I’m sorry I said anything,” he says, nasal from the nose pinching. “I’m about 90% sure you will bite someone’s dick off in the near future, Eds. 90%. That’s a worryingly high number.”

“Ugh, just drop it,” Eddie seethes, though his touch is still careful. He doesn’t want to cause any further harm. “We’re 34 minutes behind schedule and you’re not bleeding in my car.”

“I’m clean, Eds.”

“Ah – you – I – uh – I wasn’t thinking about that,” he splutters, too quick.

“Sure. And besides, who’s fault is this, Mister ‘I’m attractive and if someone tells me that I will murder them’?”

“Drop. It.”

“Fine. Consider it dropped.”

They get back into the Cricket once his nose stops bleeding. Eddie starts the engine as Tozier says, “Since we’re behind schedule, wanna stop at a motel for the night?” Eddie stares incredulously at him. Richie remains completely straight-faced. “See, what happened there,” he explains, “is I didn’t drop it.” 

Eddie wonders how easy it is to hide a body. “For fuck’s sake-”

“Picked it right back up.”

“C’mon, man-”

“And ran with it.”

“Stop.”

“Didn’t drop it once.”

“RICHIE.”

It’s the first time Eddie’s actually used his name, and Tozier jolts like he’s been shocked. “Jesus, are you broken?! We are not going to fuck. We are driving to New York, we can swap addresses and we can be good friends, but that’s it.”

Tozier – Richie – mimics a buzzer. “No can do, Bette Eddie.”

“Oh, right, right, because you don’t have an address. Whatever.”

“I mean, yeah, but that’s not it.” Richie levels his gaze at Eddie, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the bloody tissue pressed to his nostrils. “We can’t be friends. Good or bad friends.”

“Oh.” Eddie doesn’t understand why he’s so disappointed by that idea. He doesn’t like this guy. He is loud and obnoxious and he just fucking came onto him. But he was looking forward to knowing someone in New York. Richie Tozier could be a stepping stone, a support beam. He knows people, Eddie could get in on the action, and that was that. And, like it or not, the guy has an energy that exudes confidence. Eddie could benefit from some of that run-off. He tightens his grip on the wheel and glowers out at the dark ahead of them. “Fuck you too, then,” he says bitterly.

Richie’s eyes widen. The effect, with the tissue shoved up his nose, would have been hilarious if Eddie felt like laughing. Instead he feels like kicking him the fuck out of the car. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean you aren’t cool to be around, dude! Don’t take it personally.”

“How am I supposed to take it?” Eddie huffs, then realises what he’s said and shoots him a look that tells him not to fucking go there. “I’m not some kid, I don’t need your fucking seal of approval for friendship.”

“Okay, let’s backtrack.” Richie makes a ‘rewind’ motion with his hands, complete with sound effects. “What I mean is it can’t happen because it’s the classic problem.”

“What the fuck is the classic problem?”

“That it is impossible to be friends with someone who you either find attractive or wants to bone the same kinda people you do.”

For a moment, Eddie is too shocked to speak. When he gets the ability to speak back, he manages to compile his thoughts into the most concise way possible – he says, “That’s bullshit.”

See? Concise.

Richie actually laughs. “No man, it’s the truth! Two gay guys can’t be friends because they will always wonder what it would be like to bang each other. Thus, the friendship is doomed to fail. It’s like… science or some shit. Truly.”

“But I don’t find every man I meet attractive!” Eddie glances at Tozier briefly. “You cannot be _that_ sexually frustrated, that’s insane.”

“Oh, shun the non-believer, Bette Davis. I would put my dick in anything if asked nicely.” He reconsiders. “Alright, not _every_ thing. I’ve got some standards.”

“You said you have to be attracted to each other for the friendship to fail,” Eddie points out, not sure why he’s letting himself fall into this discussion. “Lucky for you, I don’t find you attractive.”

And it’s not a lie – he really doesn’t. He’s always gone for guys who had something resembling personal hygiene, guys with gentle dispositions who made Eddie feel safe. Richie Tozier makes him feel like hitting 100 on the speed dial and steering directly into the nearest wall. He’s funny, sure, but he’s too much. Too… abrasive. He’s compensating for something. Eddie is far too lazy to find out what that is.

Richie doesn’t even take the time to be offended. He just shrugs, taking out one of the tissues and inspecting the blood soaked there. _You’ll get sick, so sick, you’ll get AIDS and then you’ll die and you’ll never get to New York,_ Eddie’s mind screams at him, but he shuts it down before his mom can invade his head. “Doesn’t matter. You are empirically attractive, as I mentioned before, so our friendship is sadly doomed.”

Eddie really doesn’t believe him. He’s not attractive, empirical or otherwise. He’s a twig-thin hypochondriac with a babyface and sparse facial hair it took him months to grow. He often feels like a kid wearing his older brother’s clothes. So how? Why? How _dare_ he?

He doesn’t really want to unpack that reaction right now, so instead he sneers, “Since you find every man attractive, you’ll have no friends.”

Richie tuts and wags his finger. “There are a loooootta women in the world, pal. And lesbians.”

“Ugh.”

“Don’t be too crushed, Eds. We were never meant to be.”

“You know,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes, “I think I’ll survive.”

* * *

They end up reaching New York by 7pm, because Richie demands a rest stop and then lightly bullies Eddie into relinquishing the wheel for the last few miles. Eddie allows it because he’s honestly lost the will to fight this guy; this temporary body he’s transporting to a city so big he’ll disintegrate into the crowd. He isn’t getting attached – far from it, the guy’s a moron – but it’s like getting a life raft thrown your way that’s snatched back at the last minute. A faulty life raft. Once Richie gets out of the car Eddie will be alone. Truly alone. He wonders if Richie feels it too; knowing that diving right in the way they are is a risk that could end bad, and there’s no one there to pull them back out if they need it.

 _Well, who’s fucking fault is that, numbnuts?_ he thinks viciously in Richie’s general direction.

Maybe he’s thinking about that too, as they don’t talk so much once they hit the city on the final shift. Richie messes with the radio, sings along terribly to a couple of songs that croak out of the Cricket’s stereo more to fill the silence than anything else. ‘Rocket Man’ comes on at one point and they both listen quietly to a song about being out of place in a new world. It’s too apt for Eddie’s liking, and Richie doesn’t protest when he switches the channel halfway through.

The little car moves through New York with little fanfare, and Richie is surprisingly good at navigating traffic without promising certain death to the cab drivers who cut him up. Eddie stares out of the window and sees Manhattan, the buildings looming above him like a tribe of giants ready to crush him underfoot. But there are also hot dog stands, excitable tourists, the loud music pulsing from boomboxes and thrumming from buskers. The city is overwhelmingly colourful and alive, chasing its own pulse, and Eddie can’t get enough of it. Move over, Derry, _this_ was his now.

Soon, too soon, Richie is pulling over. “Here we are,” he claims, killing the engine and turning to glance at Eddie. “Seems as good a spot as any.”

He’s stopped them outside Washington Park. Because of course this is a ‘best choice’ spot. Eddie leans forward, looking through the windscreen at a towering marble arch, grey with age and city smoke.

“Based on the, uh, Arc de Triomphe, y’know,” Richie notes. His eyes are also on the arch. “Us Yanks always had to copy someone else’s work until we got brave enough to try something different.” Eddie says nothing, which he takes as an invitation to carry on, since adds, “Funny, huh, how something made to help them remember a bunch of revolutionary soldiers is something we made to celebrate some old white dude getting to wear the fancy ol’ presidential hat. Think I prefer the whole remembering revolutionaries route.”

Eddie eyes him tiredly. “Your Art History qualification coming in useful?”

“Oh yeah man it is _purring_ right now.”

Eddie pauses. “You seriously don’t have a plan?”

He expects a little resistance, for the guy’s face to fall when he realises what he’s actually doing here. But he gets nothing. Richie shakes his head brightly. “Nope. But don’t you worry your li’l head about me, like I said: I got some buds. I’ll crash on a couch or two, no sweat.” 

Three options arise in Eddie’s head at that moment: either the guy’s an airhead, very good at acting or genuinely… doesn’t… care. _No,_ Eddie thinks, quietly furious, _there is sweat, there is so much sweat, there is buckets of sweat, jesus fucking Christ._ “I wasn’t worried,” he says, and all Richie does is laugh and step out of the car, opening the back to retrieve his single bag.

Eddie gets out too, pushes him aside to get it himself because he has a system and he’ll throw it off with his clumsy-ass groping. He drags the bag his way and notices the patches sewn onto it: NASA, spaceships and aliens appear to be a recurring theme, though he also spots a Pride flag stitched close to the zipper. A flag that’s got black marker scribbled across it, breaking up its outline. Like whoever did it was trying to hide it. Eddie stares at it long enough for Richie to clear his throat behind him. He turns with the bag and holds it out by the trap. “This thing is old.”

Richie snorts. “Thanks, man.” He shoulders it, and Eddie sees that flag vanish against his side, blocking it from view. Shielding it. He wishes he’d asked about the bag before, but now there’s no time and no point. When Richie smiles, Eddie sort of wants to punch him again. “Guess this is it, Bette Davis,” he says, and Eddie _really_ wants to punch him again.

He leans up against his car, folding his arms tight against his chest to resist the temptation. “Yeah,” he says, eyes to the ground. “Guess so.”

“Thanks for the ride. It was, uh, nice to have someone to talk to.”

“It was certainly eye-opening.”

When he looks up, he catches Richie’s eye. The one that isn’t covered by his long-ass fucking fringe, at least. He looks like he wants to say something, ask him something maybe. Eddie keeps his mouth shut, wondering. Then the moment passes, and Richie’s holding out a hand to him. “Have a nice life, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

He pronounces his surname right. Eddie isn’t sure he ever told him his surname past the correction when they first met. Hm.

He takes the hand and shakes it, gritting his teeth. “Yeah. You too.”

Richie steps back, tugging his bag close. Here it comes. The life raft getting yanked away. He shoots finger guns at Eddie and clicks his tongue. “Follow the yellow brick road, am I right?”

Eddie snorts. “Goodbye, Richie.”

Richie backs away, like that’s supposed to be easier somehow, and finally spins around once he’s under the marble arch. And there he goes, swallowed into the Lower Manhattan stomach. Eddie gets back in the car, but doesn’t head off straight away; instead he watches what he thinks could be Richie Tozier slump off into the evening, another soul that now belongs to an insomniac city. And he’s one too. A soul without the direction he wants.

He glares in the general direction he thinks Richie headed, and whispers a single last, “Fuck _you_ , man,” for good measure.

He burns. That was… harder than he expected. He dives in the back to get to his stash of cigarettes. He lights one up, blows out the smoke as he sinks into his seat, and rationalises.

Well. Good riddance. At least he won’t have to deal with _him_ again.

He starts the Cricket’s engine.


	2. Part two: Wall Street, New York, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we have part 2! We skip forward five years to the next time Richie and Eddie meet, and it's in kinda strange circumstances... in this chapter we meet two important ladies in their lives, as well as find out a bit more about what they've been up to in those five years. All in the middle of a gay rights protest. Because of course.
> 
> Be warned that due to the content of this chapter there are a few minor AIDS mentions and homophobic language (both in attempts to claim it back and also just plain old slurs) so watch out for them.
> 
> And yes, if any of you follow me on Twitter, this is Richie's Blue Hair Period. No one seems to want this as much as I want it, but there ya go. 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are really appreciated - it really helps to motivate me, as although I like writing this for me I also like knowing people are enjoying it too! As well as on here, you can also hit me up on my NEW Twitter fic account, @monoclepony or my personal @purple_tealeaf if you fancy, either is fine :) Enjoy!

Wall Street, New York, 1991: 5 years later

“Are you sure this is the place?”

Eddie is 99 percent sure. “That’s what the office said.”

“But there’s so many _people_.”

Okay, maybe 98 percent.

“Are you really sure this is right?”

“I’m like 99% sure,” he lies.

He slips his notebook from his back pocket, checking the notes he scrawled down in a hurry from the office. He made these notes just after he stopped by the same Starbucks he always used, since they made their Americano just right and he wasn’t going to waste his time on any other dirt another coffee place tried to burden him with. It’s a routine he follows like a mantra, and he’s not ashamed of that. Out the house, coffee at the Starbucks, work. It’s served him well so far.

Anyway, the notes. _Wall Street. 12 o clock sharp. P Blum_. Concise and necessary, made out in the neat, organised letters he’s forced his hand to shape. It’s meant to be a simple interview, nothing fancy. An interview with Wall Street as its backdrop – in the middle of a screaming, raging Gay Rights protest. You know, just one of those things. Another day at the goddamn office.

It’s been framed as a punishment; Eddie knows it has. The opening statement from his boss, a possum-faced man they all call Mac (except Eddie, who calls him ‘sir’), was, “Got a lead from our undercovers that a buncha candy-asses are gonna have a hissy fit in the Financial district this week,” which obviously went down fucking _swimmingly_ with Eddie. Whilst he was trying to subdue the urge to punch his boss in the mouth, Mac decided to add, “Something about the cost of their medication for that, uh, disease. The cancer. Y’know, the gay kind.”

Eddie snapped a pencil. “It’s not cancer,” he said, and maybe didn’t realise quite how loud he said it. It turned heads. “Cancer increases cell growth abnormally,” he carried on. “AIDS doesn’t do that.”

_No, it doesn’t. It eats you from the inside out, gobbles you all up like Red Riding Hood’s wolf only there’s no woodcutter to free you from its belly._

Eddie honestly doesn’t know how he got it all out without excusing himself to go hyperventilate in a corner, but hey – he could be brave sometimes.

He does know however that he was doomed the moment Mac threw down the file on his desk. “Expert on the subject, are we young Kaspbrak?” he demanded.

He squirmed under the attention of the whole office, adjusting his tie nervously. Heat prickled through him from the ferocity of their gazes. They were all looking. Could they all see? No. Fuck them. They didn’t know shit. None of their fucking business. “I just… I just know it’s not cancer,” he argued weakly, mind racing to come up with a single reason why he’d know so much about it – and no, the answer couldn’t be _because I’ve read every single article on the subject and been violently ill afterwards_. “S-someone I know, she works in a hospital a-and…”

“Never asked, never cared. Looks like we got us a volunteer, boys.” Mac smirked at him, his mouth thin and mocking, and ohhh the urge. The urge to just stand up, grab him by that dollar-store tie and choke him with it. “It’s tomorrow. Better get there early, kid. That’s when the fighting starts. They’re pretty flighty, these queers: don’t wanna be found out, see? Lose their jobs if they were arrested.”

A chill swept through him. “I have another story going on right now about the stock exchange,” Eddie tried, “so I really don’t think I have the time to-”

“Look, wise-ass. People wanna read about queers and cops beating on each other. They don’t give a damn about your fancy graphs and statistics. They want a bit of _blood and grit._ A bit of scandal. Besides,” he added, perching on Eddie’s desk the way he knew Eddie hated, “those guys’ll eat you up. You got that kinda face that screams bait. They’ll tell you anything.” He tapped him smartly on the cheek like he was some kind of prized bullock, and Eddie flinched away with a scowl. “Word of advice kid: better take your girl, unless you wanna get lucky.”

The office roared with laughter, and Eddie sat there, sick to his stomach. He made a mental note to never look for any of them in the event of a fire. As a self-appointed fire marshal, Eddie knows they are fucked without him – and he also knows which emergency exits to block.

Anyway, he’s here. He’s with the aforementioned girl – her name is Myra, not that Mac ever bothered to learn her name – but it’s definitely _not_ because he was told to take her with him. Not like he needs to use her as a buffer, or anything. Definitely not because he’s afraid he’ll get lucky. He doesn’t want to get lucky.

Ugh. Anyway.

Myra is his photographer, his driver (since he can’t be trusted in New York traffic) and his… uh. Something, he guesses. It’s not been long. Eddie doesn’t know what kind of timeline there is on relationships, exactly, but it’s been a couple weeks and he likes her, so that’s enough.

Myra is shorter than him with a nice girl-next-door sort of face – the kind you’d see on a packet of homemade goods. She’s cautious, her large cow-like eyes darting around the street like she’s waiting for something – maybe a firework – to go off and spook her. She insisted on bringing him down here, since she not only listens to Mac and his dumb outdated ideas, but doesn’t trust Eddie when he says it’s going to be fine.

 _It’s just a tip off_ , he told her over coffee, _we get them all the time. Might be that nothing happens. Mac trusts me with this story, I gotta run it._

Myra wasn’t happy about it then, and she isn’t happy about it now.

“So, you’re talking to this… Blum girl?” she says. “That’s…. that’s all, right?”

Eddie eyes her cautiously, slipping his notebook back into his pocket. “What do you mean, ‘that’s all’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know!” she flaps in distress, like a bird. “You just have to be careful, Eddie! They might think you’re one of _them_ and you don’t know what you could _catch_.”

Eddie suppresses a shudder, but at the idea of catching something – at the idea of _Myra_ saying he could catch something – reminds him of his mother. That’s not a fun memory. He pushes it to the back of his mind, along with the suggestion that he could be anything other than ‘normal’ (what the fuck even is normal?) and focuses on the sight ahead of him.

The street is packed with people, a kaleidoscope of New York inhabitants converging in a single gilded spot. Eddie has lived in the city for long enough now to know what sort of places are always busy, and Wall Street is certainly one of them. But not like this. This is a mass gathering of people who would otherwise pass the financial district by. This is colour, noise and rage vomited onto the laps of the bankers, the stockbrokers, the men who have more money than sense, or sympathy. And Eddie is here to see it happen – and potentially get smacked in the face by a protester. Fuck it. He’ll take the risk.

“Silence is Death!” someone shrieks near them, and Eddie actually jumps. Myra grabs for him like the Wolfman has just turned up beside them, so tight it’s cutting off the blood supply to his arm. When Eddie straightens up he realises it’s just some kid, a student probably. Not a Wolfman in sight. The snarl of surprise falls from his face.

The kid is wearing a ripped, gaping shirt with a bloody handprint design on it. It’s a stark contrast to the rainbows smeared across his cheeks like warpaint. He’s holding a sign that says ‘WE WILL NOT REST IN PEACE’, which is about as graphic as Eddie can handle at 9am.

He clocks them both immediately and freezes up. Once he realises Eddie isn’t some sort of strange undercover cop, he recovers enough to notice the notebook sticking out of his pocket and the camera in Myra’s hand. “Why don’t you take a couple pictures for your li’l news report, sugar? They’ll sure as hell last longer,” he says, pursing his lips into a kiss before he saunters off, shouting the slogan over and over as he joins the throng. Eddie watches him go, a little stunned.

He wonders what the kid thinks of him; halfway through his 20s, and look at him. His hair is shorter than it was at 21 when he arrived in New York. It’s like his writing; neat and contained, with a bit of persuasion. At least he’s managed to grow into his limbs a bit more since then; he’s still short, but he’s learning to deal with that. But that’s not the point. He’s stood there in a shirt and tie, looking over the crowd like he’s above it all and ready to make notes as he does it. God, he probably looks like the Establishment with a capital E. No wonder the kid didn’t stop to talk. Eddie is the enemy, and he’s not even 30 yet.

He watches the chants start up, the singing, the waving of banners. Myra grabs his hand tight, but he doesn’t react. He reads the signs. Every single one of them. He makes sure he does. The one that grabs him the most is the question, bellowed out in black type: ‘WHERE IS YOUR RAGE?’

Well.

Exactly.

Eddie has plenty of it. He’s overflowing with it, actually. But he’s never gone to a rally like this; it’s not that he’s uncomfortable, it really isn’t, he just… isn’t really sure he belongs there. He’s not sure where he belongs, if he’s brutally honest with himself – which he is on a daily basis. He’s not been with a guy for 4 years, and only once since New York: is there an expiry date on gayness? Has he failed the test? Probably. He wishes there were better answers.

“Eddie?”

“Hm?”

“You were miles away.”

Eddie blinks. His hand is still in Myra’s, and she’s looking at him with concern. He smiles. “I… yeah. Yeah, I really was.”

She squeezes his hand, then lets go. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can tell Mac you’re feeling sick and he can get one of the other guys down here.” She seems hopeful.

Eddie knows there is no way on earth he’s going to let one of the others take this. He knows exactly what kind of grammatically incorrect, homophobic shitshow they would turn the article into. They will have to prise it out of his cold dead fucking fingers before he lets go. He just needs a fucking existential moment.

He watches as an abandoned bus is set upon by the protesters, and a guy with electric blue hair (really? Fucking REALLY?) clambers onto its roof. Other protesters are pulled up, a boombox gets there too, and then there they are. Blasting Madonna at top volume across the street. Cars honk. People shout. The protesters shout louder. And there’s a little tug, somewhere in the pit of Eddie’s stomach, that draws him towards them. That irresistible hint of defiance, of danger, of standing up to something he believes in with his whole body…

“There’s a payphone down the way. I can go call him.”

Eddie turns back to Myra. “No, no, don’t do that.”

He can’t see much from where they’re stood – the angle’s all wrong – but the guy with the blue hair cuts a vivid silhouette against the white building behind his head. There’s a scarf pulled over his mouth like he’s ready to rob a fucking bank, and his denim jacket looks like it’s had a fight with Jackson Pollock and lost. That stupid fucking hair has dark roots, despite the eye-watering colour of its tips. It’s a poor job, but the hair is thick like it’s looked after. Scruffy, too; scruffy like the guy’s been dragged through the streets by his jacket collar, and maybe he has.

Eddie realises too late that he’s been examining Mr Blue Hair for too long. Jesus, he needs to calm down.

“You should take a shot of that guy,” he says to Myra, to cover his tracks.

By the way Myra huffs at him and folds her arms, he knows she was definitely talking to him during his mini… whatever that was. “Eddieeeee,” she wheedles, “You weren’t listening!”

“I was?” he tries.

“Then what was I saying?” She taps her foot, teacherly and impatient.

“Uh…”

Mr Blue Hair is beckoning someone forward with a megaphone, and a regimented crowd of people is starting to form.

“You’re hopeless!” She throws her hands in the air. “You’re too interested in looking at those… those _people_!”

Eddie wants to make the point that it is literally his _job_ to look at ‘those people’, but that’s not what she wants to hear. So he steps closer, taking the hand not clutching onto her camera for dear life. “Sorry, Marty.” His pet name for her does the trick, as he sees her thaw – just a little. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that I don’t like it here, Eddie,” she says, eyes darting all around her as if waiting for someone to appear from a dark alley and jump her. “Please, let’s go. It could turn any minute.”

“Hey.” He draws her back to him, letting a soft smile play across his face. “We’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that! They could-”

“They’re people, Marty, and they’re angry,” he says, squeezing her hand gently, “and they should be. I’ve done the research, you know. The drugs companies are making AZT too expensive, people are dying… they’re not going to protest quietly.” He glances over at the signs, the singing, the solidarity, and envisions a spot where he could be standing – if he wasn’t such a fucking coward. Instead, he moves closer to Myra. “No one is gonna hurt you.”

Myra doesn’t seem convinced.

“C’mon, it’s just a few pictures. They’ll love the publicity. I’m sure they will. We’ll meet back here when it’s over, okay?” He smiles. “I’ll have my story from Blum, and you’ll have your photos. If it gets ugly, I promise we’ll go. But make sure to take shots of the cops too, if they show. Mac said he wants… well, he wants to show that, if it happens.”

 _And I want to take those pictures, run them through the database and ID the bastards,_ he thinks viciously to himself. It won’t make a shred of difference, but he’ll at least know which cops to look out for.

“Eddie.” Myra’s brows are drawn together and her bottom lip quivers like jelly. “You promise we’ll get outta here if it turns nasty?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure, promise.”

It is. Myra smiles too, convinced, and leans in. “Seal the deal?”

He smiles too. “Well, if you insist.” Her giggles are smothered by his kiss.

It’s at this exact moment an awful attempt at a Southern Belle voice blasts through the tinny sound of a megaphone. “Well LOOKEE HERE, FELLAS. Ah say, ah say, do mine eyes deceive me?”

Eddie breaks the kiss to see Mr Blue Hair leap off the bus and into the squealing crowd. He sheds his jacket, the megaphone is thrown to one side and then the guy is hopping a self-constructed barrier to stride over to them. Eddie vaguely considers backing off as Mr Blue Hair gets closer, but then he practically bounces into their personal space, pulls down his scarf and – Eddie’s eyes snap open.

Shit, he knows that face, why does he know that face holy shit shit shit-

Then Mr Blue Hair speaks.

“If it isn’t my favourite ex-neighbour,” he drawls, and yep. It’s him.

It’s Richie fucking Tozier.

Oh fuck his life fuck it fuck it fuck it hard.

A long-lost feeling, fond and comforting, takes over Eddie; that wonderful urge to immediately pick up the nearest sign and clock Tozier over the head with it.

The first conclusion he draws is that Richie Tozier is still an absolute disaster of a man. The fringe is gone, but his hair is obviously still everywhere and… well, he refuses to even discuss the fucking blue. There’s no way. What the hell was this fucker _on_ , blue fucking hair?!

He’s not quite as gangly as he was at 21, but there’s still a lot of him. He now walks with a swaying lope like he’s finally figured how to swing his body around without tripping over. There’s more meat on the bone, more of a break to his smile, and yep, he definitely looms over Eddie like a fucking tree. _You were asked to climb that once,_ he reminds himself, and fixes Tozier with his neutral brand of glower.

Tozier isn’t looking at him, though. He’s looking at Myra. To her credit, Myra is staring at him like he’s a particularly disgusting looking insect. Huh. Clearly he incites the same feeling in many people. “Came to see the show, eh Myra?” he says, and she actually bristles.

“I’m on a job,” she says, curt and biting. Eddie blinks. It’s not a voice he’s heard come from her before.

“Huh, really?” Tozier tucks his tongue behind his teeth and raises his brows. _Fuck,_ where is an abandoned sign when Eddie needs one? “Always thought you just had a kink for watching us queers take a beating. Maybe that’s just me.”

“Don’t be an ass. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be,” Myra says coldly, “but we’re doing a piece on this thing.”

Eddie feels the chill ripple between them.

“Sure, sure.” Tozier grins, but it’s the bared teeth of a cornered animal. “Keep telling yourself that. Knew we had a connection, sweetcheeks, but _really._ There’s other ways of getting my attention. You didn’t go bringing the boys in blue to the party like last time, did you?”

Eddie looks around, but can’t see any police – not yet, anyway. He’s sure they’ll be getting ready to move before too long.

“That was nothing personal,” Myra says.

“You called the cops on me for a noise complaint, doll, that’s pretty personal.”

“Right.” And then Myra does the one thing Eddie’s been hoping she won’t – she brings him into the conversation. “Anyway, this is Eddie Kaspbrak. He’s my partner, he’s writing the piece.”

Tozier’s eyes flicker to him. Eddie freezes, like he hopes Tozier’s vision is based on movement. Like a toad. Or is it a frog? Fuck he can’t remember. _Fuck_ Tozier is still looking at him. _FUCK SAY SOMETHING YOU GODDAMN FUCKING IDIOT_.

A crease appears between Tozier’s brows as he stares. Shit, he clearly recognises him, but maybe not enough? Eddie holds his gaze despite himself, stubborn.

The recognition passes. Tozier looks back to Myra. “He’s speaking to Patty? Pfft, good luck. She’ll eat him for breakfast.” He turns back to Eddie. “She’s gonna meet you at the Life Café,” he says, like Eddie’s supposed to fucking know what and where that is (he does, but that’s not the point). “And careful. She bites.” Eddie doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“So, you’re camera-girl eh Myra? Better get my best side, I’ve always been told I got the beauty.”

“Whoever told you that is blind.”

“Augh, you wound me. Hey, actually…” He winks, hands coming to the hem of his T-shirt. It’s got ACT-UP emblazoned across it, something that makes Eddie itch uncomfortably, and in one swift movement Tozier says, “I got a photo for ya,” and pulls it up over his head.

Myra screams.

Scratched into his body are the words YOUR GREED KILLS US. For one horrifying moment, Eddie sees it written in blood, carved into the soft flesh of Tozier’s chest and stomach deep enough to scar– then he realises. Paint. It’s just paint. Jesus Christ.

“Take a picture,” he says before he realises the words are out of his mouth.

Myra gapes at him. “Eddie, are you serious-?”

“Do it.”

The set to her jaw suggests they’ll be talking about this later, but she does what he asks. Her camera whines after the flash and Tozier lowers his shirt again, eclipsing the words from view. “Hey whaddaya know, you got yourself a man of quality. Knows some top quality goods when he sees ‘em.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there, honey. Thanks, man.” He directs this at Eddie, and another conflicted look passes over him as he looks him over. “I better, uh, get back to the guys. Myra, always nice to see a fan.” Her lip curls, and he blows her a kiss. He takes a last glance at Eddie thoughtfully, before he begins walking back to the baying mob. The back of his shirt reads the same slogan the protesters are screaming: SILENCE = DEATH.

It’s the second time Richie Tozier has walked away from him, and the sense of relief Eddie experiences is almost crushing. Hell, his knees practically give out.

“Of course _he’s_ here,” Myra scoffs, as Tozier is drawn back into the hooting, hollering gang of protesters with pats on the back and arms slung around him. Eddie feels oddly… wistful at the sight. “He never could resist causing a scene.”

“Thank God he couldn’t place me,” Eddie says faintly.

Myra’s head snaps to attention, alarm scribbled across her features. “What?”

“I drove up from Maine with him after college and it was the longest drive of my life. I wanted to kill him the moment he got in the car.”

Admitting his murderous intent seems to soothe Myra more than Eddie feels it should. “Certainly sounds like his MO,” Myra muses. “God, he moved into this awful house I was in when I first got to New York. You know the one, with the rats?” Eddie nods. Yes, he knows of that place. Myra brings it up quite often to remind him she’s slummed it too. “Anyway, he never shut up, never paid his rent on time. He ended up leaving after trying to start a water fight with the landlord. I just assumed he’d gone to live in the garbage after that, like some kind of… of human raccoon.”

Wow, Myra really doesn’t like him. Raccoons are her nemeses. All Eddie says though is, “Huh.”

Richie’s taking the megaphone back now, riling up the protesters with a rousing rendition of Another One Bites The Dust with altered lyrics. Freddie would be proud. “Where’d he work?”

“Does it matter?” When Eddie doesn’t answer, Myra shrugs and says, “Never worked anywhere too long, I don’t think. He was too busy shouting about injustice to hold down a job, you know bosses don’t really like that sort of talk.” She winces as memories clearly come flooding back. “Jeez, he used to have different guys over every week, Eddie. Every week. And the walls weren’t thick, I heard way too much.” A thought then seems to strike her, and she turns to Eddie with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh my – did he _make a_ _pass_ at you?”

Eddie snaps ramrod straight like he’s been called on by the teacher, a familiar bolt of panic zipping up his spine. “Wh-what?” he says through thinned lips.

“Oh my god, he _did_!” Myra shrieks, alerting a couple of nearby Wall Streeters getting their days ruined. “I cannot believe this, oh my goodness, he really is shameless, hitting on you and you’re not even… you won’t… you wouldn’t…” she splutters through it all like it’s so completely infallible that Eddie Kaspbrak could be such a thing as gay, and Eddie just feels that panic stretch and grow.

“He _didn’t_ ,” he says back in a steely voice, as the heat continues to rise in his cheeks. “Could you keep your voice down?”

Myra blinks at the sharpness to his words, but continues on in a quieter voice, “You’re a bad liar, you know. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You can’t help what _he’s_ like. I’m sure he’d make eyes at a fire hydrant if it looked at him the right way. And you’re so handsome, Eddie!”

“Only when I’m thinking,” he remembers suddenly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He frowns. The diner. Tozier’s goofy fucking smile that made Eddie want to punch him in the nose. What he’d said later, back in Eddie’s old car (beat down old Cricket now that was a good car a steady car it didn’t deserve to be written off the way it did) when he suggested splitting a motel for the night. So easy. So natural. What would’ve happened, Eddie wonders, if he’d gone and said yes that day?

 _Well then, Richie Tozier would have been the last man you ever slept with,_ his mind informs him, so very certain of itself.

Eddie shudders at the thought, and Myra claps in triumph, eyes sparking with anger. “Yes! See? I knew it! My God, he has a nerve. He should be kept on a leash. Why I ought to go and give him a piece of my mind.”

Eddie remembers something else too. In a wild bid to stop Myra wading into the protesters and starting a fight, he asks, “Are you friends with any men?”

It works. Myra blinks, her train of thought re-routed. “Excuse me?!”

“It’s this… thing that he said when we were driving here. Something about having friends.” He pauses. “Are you friends with any men you find attractive?”

She frowns. “No. No, I don’t think so. But hey, we were friends before we started seeing each other, right?”

That doesn’t help. That proves the Classic Problem, and fuck is Eddie is going to let _Richie Tozier_ be right about something. It clearly shows on his face, as Myra starts to look confused. “Do you… want me to get attractive male friends?”

A little too late it dawns on him that Myra’s mind is veering off in a very, very different direction to his. “No, no! Not like that. I don’t want to share my girlfriend.”

Myra breaks into a beaming smile at this and _okay,_ Eddie cannot cope with these levels of mood swings. “Girlfriend?” she repeats gleefully, and oh _shit_ he’s never called her his girlfriend before and he decided to call her his girlfriend in the middle of a job in front of an AIDS demonstration well okay this is happening this is a thing he’s gone and done.

He smiles bashfully at her, because dear fucking god he needs to let his brain catch up to his mouth for a minute, and he shrugs helplessly. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Girlfriend. Is that, uh, okay?”

“It’s very okay!” And then she’s kissing him, unexpected and clumsy.

It’s really something for Eddie to be the one with more experience in the kissing department, but Myra has overbearing parents and self-imposed rules when it comes to dating – so they fit together rather nicely, all things considered. Eddie knows a hand on the face slows the action down, makes it tender – so that’s what he does, and Myra melts into him like he’s the best kisser in the world. She doesn’t need to know he learnt that trick from Ben Mears in college. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

He pulls away and _wow_ she’s close ( _obviously, you just kissed, you moron_ ) and… holy shit, is she _crying_? Choosing to graciously ignore that unprocessable hit of emotion, Eddie says, “I gotta go interview an activist, so uh… go take photos, and I’ll see you later? Dinner at mine?”

She nods so enthusiastically her hair bounces off her shoulders, and with a parting kiss he steps away entirely, already mapping the route to the Life Café in his head. Around the corner, a few turns to the right and he’ll be there. He’s been there once or twice. He’s starting to head to the corner when Myra opens her mouth and a bomb falls from it.

“I love you!”

She shouts it down the road, and it stops Eddie in his tracks. He turns around and, in a beautifully candid way, he says, “Uh huh.”

Then he fucking _bolts._

Bombs, as it happens, aren’t always instant carnage. Sometimes they hit, they wait, then they detonate. That’s when the mushroom cloud appears, a tall column that builds and billows above heads and buildings. Eddie was standing in the blast zone of that one, for sure, hand frozen halfway to the notebook in his pocket, but it takes until he reaches the Life Café for the damage to truly hit.

He orders an Americano and throws himself into a chair as it crashes over him, the realisation that he knew what he had to say, he knew the etiquette, but he couldn’t fucking do it. What the _fuck_ kind of reaction was, “uh huh”? Was he broken?

 _She told you she loved you, she didn’t propose marriage,_ he reminds himself. Besides, she just sort of followed his own lead – he was the one who used the Girlfriend Word. Shit, this is a good thing. He should be happy, logic dictates he should be jumping for fucking joy but he’s just…not. The feeling is dead in him like a numbed limb, and no matter how he tries he can’t feel any different.

 _And yet I want it,_ he thinks as he checks his watch. Blum’s late. He wants that light, head-rush feeling, one he’s felt before in dark bars and the privacy of his own four walls.

He wants to feel it with Myra, he really does, but the problem is so glaringly obvious that he’s embarrassed to even think about it.

_You want to be in love with Myra, champ? Huh? Now, that isn’t going to happen is it? And why is that? BECAUSE SHE HAS A VAGINA._

His train of thought is railroaded by Richie fucking Tozier sliding into the chair opposite him.

Eddie throws his reporter’s notebook at him out of instinct. Overarm. It hits him square in the chest. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?” he demands.

Tozier picks up the notebook and places it calmly on the table between them. He then points an intrusive finger right at him and says, “University of New England.”

Eddie goes cold. _Oh fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he says weakly.

He’s fervently ignored. “Class of ’86.” Tozier seems to take Eddie’s stunned silence as agreement, as his face splits into a smile that isn’t the barbed wire kind he’d used back at the protest. “Thought so. Knew I’d remember.” Then he pauses. “Were you this attractive back then?”

Eddie doesn’t grant that with a response.

“Did we, uh-?” He makes a ring with the fingers of one hand and a pointer with the other and – well, Eddie gets the picture pretty quickly.

“No!” he says hotly, slapping Tozier’s hands down before anyone notices. “No, we did _not_ , I’ve got fucking standards.”

The other man takes that surprisingly well. “Fair enough,” he shrugs.

He peruses the menu like he’s planning on staying there a long time. Eddie’s taken back to five years ago, when they were both sat in that dive of a diner arguing about – whatever it was they were arguing about, because they absolutely had to have been arguing. He doesn’t need to remember what it was _about._ “Hey, you buyin’? Cus I, uh, haven’t had my paycheck through yet and I’m sorta living off the fat o’ the lan’, y’know?”

Oh, he cannot be serious. “Why the fuck would I buy your lunch?”

Tozier blinks. “Oh shit yeah, I forgot to mention.” He spreads the menu out in front of them like he’s laying a deck of cards on the table for Eddie to shuffle. “So, uh, contrary to popular belief I am not here to reminisce about the good old days, especially that time you broke my nose-”

“I didn’t break your nose, if anyone broke your nose _you_ broke your _own_ nose!”

“It was a dark time, but moving on.” Tozier leans back in his seat. “I am here in a semi-professional capacity to talk about the protest.” He falters here. “That’s what Patty told me to say, that sound about right?”

Eddie sits there in stunned silence for a few seconds before he manages to recover and splutters out, “You actually _know_ Patricia Blum?” When Tozier nods, Eddie snorts in disbelief. There’s no fucking way. “The Patricia Blum who was the only one to say yes to an interview?”

“Patty Blum my housemate? Patty Blum, who is currently chained to some building? Patty Blum to whom I owe five dollars and she said we’d be square if I sat down with some white-collar asshole from uptown for his newspaper article?” He grins. “Yeah, that one.”

“Shit.”

“Yep-ah.” Tozier pops his lips at the end of that sentence, like he knows it’ll annoy Eddie. “Ain’t that a kick in the head? Better give me a good time if you want the story, white-collar asshole from uptown.” He winks. _Actually_ winks.

Ah, the fond fond memory of wanting to strangle him. It’s all coming back to him.

Eddie scowls at the menu and shoves it back at him. “Order whatever you want, I’ll pay.”

Tozier cheers as Eddie seriously considers the merits of leaving an interview when _you_ are in fact the interviewer, but then Tozier calls the man behind the bar over. “Fernando! How about some of those amazing eggs of yours and a good ol’ cup of joe, my man?”

The man, who’s apparently the owner and the last of the Woodstock generation if his hair is anything to go by, beams. “Sure thing. And for your, uh…”

“Interviewer,” Eddie cuts in, dying a little inside at the very suggestion there were meeting in anything but a business sense. “I guess if we’re eating, I’ll have the same. But no pepper and if there’s salad keep the dressing on the side, if there’s no dressing then no tomatoes.” He pauses. “And a coffee too. Please.”

Tozier grins at him like he’s won something, then turns back to Fernando and, just like that, another language falls out of his mouth. Eddie stares in shock as Tozier and the owner talk, the words bumping into one another like little creatures in the dark, and Fernando seems charmed. When he leaves, he does so with a chuckle and a shake of his head. Tozier turns back to him, the shadow of the smile he gave to the owner hanging on his face. “So. Your questions. Hit me. I’ll channel my inner Pattycake.”

Eddie ducks his head down to look at his notebook, tapping his pen against the questions. These are all so personal to Patricia Blum – you know, the person he was _actually_ meant to be interviewing – but he’ll try. He is a journalist. He has experience. He can do this. He clears his throat. “Okay, so. People know the start of Patricia’s story-”

“Patty,” Tozier interrupts immediately. “Call her Patty, she hates Patricia.” 

Eddie considers throwing the salt shaker at him, but represses the urge and ploughs on. “Born Penny Blum, moved to New York at 16 to be with her out and proud brother, Patrick. Unsure about parental upbringing, but I guess you won’t know that. Uh.” He frowns. "Patrick was involved in various Pride demonstrations and Penny dropped out of school to work with him. He was arrested multiple times, and Penny’s first arrest was at 18 for throwing a projectile at a police vehic- uh, yes?”

Tozier has been staring at him the whole time. Squinting, actually. It’s starting to make Eddie itch. He almost looks… intent. Like he’s looking for something in Eddie’s face he’s not finding. At Eddie’s question he stirs, his eyes coming back into focus. He frowns. “I’m sorry, I can’t-” He reaches over and snaps his fingers in front of Eddie’s eyes, waving like Eddie can’t see him. Eddie blinks. “Doctor, Doctor, I think we lost him.”

Eddie’s scowl returns. “Are you fucking high right now? Because I am not interviewing you if you’re high.”

“Ah, thank god!” Tozier falls back into his seat, clutching his chest. “It’s alright, nurse! False alarm, false alarm, he’s back, we pulled him from the brink!”

“What are you even talking about.”

“You.” Tozier gestures at him. “You sound like a goddamn pager. C’mon man, where’s the heart?”

The coffee arrives. Eddie takes a deep breath and lets it out equally slowly. “It’s a story,” he says, as though explaining it to a five year old. “It requires facts.”

“This isn’t about facts, it’s about emotion!” Tozier all but shouts, making Eddie jump. “Pats took her brother’s name after she saw him fight AIDS and lose, she held his hand when he died at 27 years of age and their parents didn’t even call! The demonstrations just a couple blocks away are part of his legacy, this scrappy kid from New Jersey who fought for what was right until the end and now his sister’s here to do the same for all of us! This isn’t just a fun little jaunt to raise hell, it’s to protest the price of AZT, the so-called wonder-drug that young gay New Yorkers can’t afford!” He throws his arms out like he’s reaching a crescendo, and Eddie is almost ready to see him jump onto his chair and burst into song. He stays where he is, only a little enraptured by the fire in Tozier’s eyes. “ _That_ , my good man, is _emotion_!” he finishes, finishing with a flourish so violent it knocks over the condiments on their table.

There’s silence between them for a moment. Then Eddie reaches over, delicately returns the condiments to their correct position, and calmly starts making a few notes.

Tozier slumps into his seat with a heavy sigh. “Seriously, man. How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” Eddie asks, still more focused on his notes.

“Shut yourself off like that.” Tozier taps at his notebook. “So you’re just a suit with a notebook, and a story’s just a story.”

“It’s called being professional,” Eddie answers, flicking the page over before Tozier gets a chance to read it.

“Mmm, I don’t think so. It’s called having practice.”

“Practice with what?”

“Hiding.”

Okay, now that makes Eddie look at him. “What am I hiding?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Tozier considers him for a moment, before asking, “So, on a completely unrelated note… you and Myra, huh?”

Eddie’s hackles go up on instinct. That is definitely _not_ an unrelated subject, and he has a feeling Tozier knows that. “Yes.”

“Guess you found the answer to that question of yours after all, Eds. Myra is very much a woman.” Tozier takes a sip of coffee. “So, it really was a phase. Gotta say, I’m surprised - I’d never have called it.”

“It just sort of happened,” Eddie says, honestly. “A-and it’s really none of your business.”

“You’ve been together, what, a month?”

Eddie frowns. “Six weeks. How did you know that?”

Tozier raises a brow. It’s dark, not matching the electric hair, and it disappears up into it as he waits. “You really wanna know?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Indulge me.”

“Alright, you asked.” Tozier leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Because no one kisses like that in the middle of the relationship. That was her marking her territory right there. Might as well have been pissing all over you.” Eddie’s nose wrinkles at the mental image. “Also you looked spooked as fuck when I came in, so – ohhh wait, I see what happened.” His eyes light up. “She just told you she loves you for the first time.”

Eddie gets a hot flash of shame. “Wha- no she didn’t!”

“Oh, she SO did. Couldn’t say it back, right?” Tozier’s fucking enjoying himself. Wow, fuck him.

“Th-that’s… it’s not…”

“You freaked out, it’s alright, a lotta guys freak out.”

“I didn’t freak out!”

“Hey, c’mon, you scream ‘commitment issues’ more than most guys, if you didn’t freak out I’m the queen of England.”

“You’re the queen of something.”

“Heyyyy the reporter gets off a good one!”

“Incredible,” Eddie muses, more to himself than to the man sat opposite him. “I get to a point where I think you can’t get any more obnoxious, and then you just defy all expectations.”

“Thank you,” Tozier says, so sincere that it actually brings out a snort of laughter from the pit of Eddie’s stomach. He stares at him in horror, hoping he didn’t hear it – but oh he _definitely_ did. Tozier smiles, but it seems subdued. “Do you love her?” he asks, and it’s not the fake sincere – it’s genuine, and makes Eddie choke on his coffee.

“I dunno.” He frowns, knowing it’s exposing his soft underbelly. “I guess I do. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“You gonna marry her?”

“We’ve been going out for six weeks, Richie. Six.” Eddie snaps his mouth shut with a jolt. He just called him Richie. Fuck. Is that too close? Probably. Shit. Can’t go back on that now. “It’s a bit soon to be thinking about getting married. Besides, we’re pretty young to be thinking about that, period.”

“Eh, I dunno. I’m getting married.”

Richie says this as Fernando arrives with their lunch, and he says something in clumsy Spanish which the older man corrects with delight. Eddie isn’t paying attention, isn’t even looking at his eggs because _Richie Tozier is getting married._ It’s about as absurd an idea as a dog walking on its hind legs. Eddie is still reeling from this information as Richie tucks in with abandon. “You?” he says. It sounds more like a demand.

Richie laughs. “Yes, me. Well, no, it’s not a technical _marriage_ , per se, can’t have one of those – but we’re doing the next best thing.” He takes a bite of his eggs before he continues, “We found a guy who’ll do us a commitment ceremony. S’not legal the same way a wedding is, but hey – it’s close enough.”

“Oh. Uh. Well.”

“You wanna know who the lucky guy is, don’t you?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“His name’s Connor, he’s training to be a lawyer, I’m taking his name,” Richie says, practically bouncing in his seat as he talks. “He’s the fucking best, man, it’s been three years and he’s not sick of my bullshit yet.”

“A true American hero,” Eddie comments. He shakes his head. “I… I’m sorry, but I literally cannot begin to comprehend that you’re getting married.”

“That’s fair,” Richie admits. The thought occurs to Eddie that Richie hasn’t once tried to fight back or defend himself. He just accepts that the worst of him has to be what comes out of people’s mouths, and Eddie decidedly does not like _that._ But Richie continues, like he doesn’t notice the way Eddie’s glaring a hole in his herby eggs, “Maybe I changed. It’s amazing what falling madly in love can do for you. They should start advertising this shit.”

Eddie glances up. “Oh, wow, you love him?”

Richie’s response is so earnest it almost hurts. “I really fucking do, man. Like… to the moon and back.” He twirls the eggs around his plate with a fork. “Y’know, like normal earth people when they get told someone loves them.”

Eddie smarts at that, but he’s no longer in the mood to snap at him. Sure, murderous intent was still in him, but for now it was sleeping somewhere dark. “Well, Richie, I guess I’m proud of you.”

Richie snorts rather unattractively into his plate. “Alright, Dad.”

“Fuck you, I mean it. It’s good to see you… I dunno. In love?”

And yeah, fuck Richie Tozier, Eddie really means it. He remembers the guy in his front seat, how he talked about all the physical components of loving someone but never the love itself, as though that was some kind of forbidden word or dream he’d never reach. But here he was, brimming with it. _Huh_ , Eddie thinks, _Love suits him. Who’d have thought it?_

The thought’s fleeting, though, and gone before he can puzzle out why it arrived in the first place – and why with so much fondness. Because Richie is a fucking disaster and Eddie does _not_ like him.

Richie squirms under the praise. “Aw gee, aw gosh, thankin’ ye kindly,” he replies in a Southern drawl that isn’t the Southern Belle – more humble ranch hand. “It, uh, feels good. Sounds dumb to say, but I, uh… don’t have a good track record of shit working out for me like this.”

“Hm.”

“Oh god, don’t psychoanalyse that,” Richie says immediately. “And don’t look at me like that!”

Eddie twitches and asks, “Like what?” since he wasn’t aware he was looking at Richie any kind of way.

“You’re looking at me with those big ol’ Bette Davis eyes and feeling sorry for me.”

“Oh.” Eddie frowns. “I don’t feel sorry for you, you’re a moron.”

Somehow he knows that’s exactly what Richie needs, and when Richie starts up his machine gun laughter Eddie knows for sure he’s correct in his assessment. He smiles at him despite his better judgement, and orders another coffee.

They talk for a while; mostly about the article after that, as Eddie demands they keep to schedule and Richie ribs him for it, but there are moments where Richie can’t help scattering a few choice facts about himself instead of Patty. Eddie learns he works at a small music store (records mostly) as well as a local radio station and volunteers at the Met on weekends, but organising marches and protests and general civil disobedience are ingrained in his daily life. Richie likes to talk, and Eddie finds out that he’s okay with listening. Richie is some weird kind of reminder to Eddie of the life he left back in college; it’s almost nostalgic to be around him again, even if they’d only met for seven hours. It’s like rediscovering some animal you saw in the wild, but now it’s behind glass at a zoo. It’s safe.

Richie seems to be enjoying himself just as much, since he orders two more coffees on Eddie’s tab and makes a conscious effort to drink them slow. Eddie’s long since got the information he needs for the article, but it’s strange – he doesn’t want to leave. Richie might infuriate him, but it’s hard to let the bastard go. _But you’ll have to,_ Eddie reminds himself, _because of the Classic fucking Problem **he** set out for you._

Ugh. Anyway.

Connor is a common topic Richie comes back to, like the guy is a new favourite tv show or singer he’s desperate to get everyone else into – which is about right, Eddie supposes – and when he finishes up an anecdote about his soon-to-be life partner and a parking attendant, Eddie asks the question: “How come you wanna get married? I mean, you never seemed the type before. I know you’ve changed and whatever but… you can have all the shit married couples have without the fuss.”

Richie laughs. “I guess it beats the game of Scrabble I had lined up that week.”

“No, c’mon. Tell me, a practical stranger.”

Richie laughs again. “I dunno man, Connor suggested it? And besides, it’s nice. Feels like it’s official, yknow? Sure beats being a bachelor, too.”

Eddie frowns. “Does it?”

“Sure it does! Being single and gay was hard enough without that fucker called AIDS out there picking us off one by one. Now it’s like playing a game of fucking Russian Roulette. Besides, I was kinda tired of the whole dating schtick.”

“Dating schtick?” Eddie echoes.

“Yeah, you know. The secret codes. The signalling. It’s fucking _exhausting._ And if you get it wrong, you get a smack in the mouth at the least.” Eddie’s frown increases. That’s… bleak, but statistically correct. “And if you do manage to get someone home with you, it’s a quick blowie and they’re out the door. That’s it. Don’t cry for me Argentina.” He lets out a theatrical sigh. “No one ever stays, they all got lives to get back to.”

Eddie sighs. “Have you ever considered you just have a thing for absolute tools?”

“Oh, I did it too,” Richie says. “I never stayed. I’d be mid-blowjob or mid-fuck or whatever and I’d be tracking the quickest route home in my head.”

“You really think that?” Eddie questions.

“Oh yeah. Common symptom of the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name: awful staying power.”

“Wow. _You’re_ the tool.”

Richie leers across the table at him. “That’s my name, Eds, don’t go wearing it out the same way your dad does.”

“Oh, fuck you, my Dad’s dead.”

“My condolences. You’re saying you stayed? During your wild quest of self-discovery?”

Eddie returns his gaze to the bottom of his cup, to the dregs that float there. Richie doesn’t need to know there’s only been one other person. One before Myra. After Ben Mears. And it was something he’d much rather forget, instead of dredging it up over eggs and coffee with his ex-roadtrip partner. And yet here it comes, spewing out of his mouth like he can’t stop it. “Yeah. Yeah, I stayed.”

Richie blinks. “Huh. Well, I stand correc-”

“He didn’t.”

“Ah, shit. That sucks, man.”

Discomfort coils under his skin because, like it or not, he had wanted to leave. Right after. The way Richie described it. It was like there was some alarm that went off in his head telling him to go, to run, to not look back. He was only too glad when the guy got up for work and told him to let himself out. That way he wasn’t the asshole. Shit, maybe Richie’s right: maybe it’s ingrained into them like an instinct. Maybe they’re just prey animals, poised to run at the slightest pressure.

“Anyway,” he says, forcibly pulling himself out of that sobering thought, “that’s old news now. I have Myra.”

It’s a lifeline. It’s something.

Richie’s not laughing anymore. Or even smiling. He seems – subdued somehow, and it hits Eddie that five years is actually quite a long time. Long enough for someone to change – perhaps. “Yeah,” Richie says, “you sure do, bud.”

And _fuck,_ Eddie feels that gnaw of loneliness, deep in his gut, like a threat.

* * *

Richie notices the time tick by, but he doesn’t care to mention it. He doesn’t really want to be the one that says it and gets them both moving out of the café and along their different paths. Because this guy sat across from him, notebook forgotten to one side, is so damn interesting Richie’s head might explode.

Richie’s made a hobby out of watching people; it’s a free pastime, and when he can’t talk it’s almost a compromise. He makes up stories, voices, _lives_ to fit the nameless figures on the street or the subway. He often recites them to whoever he’s with at the time, or to Connor later just to get a laugh out of him. But this guy?

He has multitudes of stories.

He’s a tough nut to crack, and yet not at all. He very clearly hates his guts and just wants to get on with his job – until he doesn’t. In conclusion, Eddie Kaspbrak is a clusterfuck, and Richie is ever so slightly endeared by that. It’s this that makes him ask, “Hey, you wanna do this again?” two hours in without thinking.

Eddie’s eyes dart to him and immediately scrunch in confusion. “What, another interview? It’s not that big a piece, I think I got everything I need.”

“No, numbnuts, I’m asking you if you’d like to maybe get some lunch sometime? You know, food. Together. On the same table.”

Eddie’s expression darkens. He grabs his notebook and holds it close to his chest, almost like a shield. “You _just_ told me you were getting married,” he spits, and _oh_ Richie sees what he did there.

He pushes a little more, just because he’s him and he enjoys being a little shit sometimes. “Oh, don’t worry Eds: Connor likes to watch.”

Eddie’s eyes widen impossibly wider. “Myra,” he bleats, like some kind of deranged goat, and that makes Richie break. God, he’s too fucking easy.

“Jesus, Bette Davis, not like _that_! Your face though, holy shit.”

“My name is Eddie,” he snipes.

“Whatever, that was not a come-on. You gotta stop thinking I wanna get in your pants.”

“You literally offered to split a motel four hours after meeting me,” Eddie retorts, “so forgive me if I’m getting mixed fucking signals.”

Shit, had he really done that? Woah, 21 year old Richie was a cocky little fuck, wasn’t he? “Can’t blame a horny student for trying, I guess. Been dwelling on that all these years, have you? Thought about how good it’d be?”

Eddie glares so hard at him Richie swears he sees a vein pop on his temple. He almost _feels_ it. “I happen to have a good memory,” was the cutting response. “And not once have I imagined the absolute disaster fucking you would be.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, not a come-on. Just as friends.”

“Friends?” Eddie lowers the notebook back to the table. He squints at Richie like he’s waiting for a punchline. Jeez Louise, this guy. He’s surprised, then, when Eddie’s face hardens and he scrapes his chair back from the table. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

He blinks. “Uh, what? Why?”

“You tell me.” Eddie’s voice becomes contained, pruned like he’s going through his article notes. The suddenness of the change gives Richie whiplash. “You’re the expert.”

Oh god, what did dumb 21 year old him say this time? When Richie continues to look blank, Eddie rolls his eyes. “Ugh. You were the one who said we couldn’t be friends before.”

Richie frowns. “I never said that.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No, I’m fucking Connor.”

Eddie actually buries his face in his hands at this. Richie waits patiently until he appears from behind them and says, with bite, “ _You_ said we can’t be friends because we’re both… you know.”

Ah. That. “Okay, yes, I did say that,” Richie admits, “but! May I add a clause to this rule?”

“It’s not a rule.”

“Friendship is okay,” he says, ignoring Eddie, “if both parties are in relationships. Plus you’re with a woman, so. Doesn’t count. Cancels it out. Friendship can be obtained.”

Eddie scoffs. “That’s the dumbest clause I’ve ever heard, since it would never work.”

“Why?”

“Because spouses of the respective parties will assume something is missing from the relationship in question if the parties have to make friends with someone they would, in orientation terms, normally sleep with. Thus, the relationship breaks down and the friendship remains doomed because there’s resentment due to said broken-down relationship,” Eddie explains breezily, tucking his notebook into his back pocket and standing up.

Richie stands too. “Is this your way of telling me you’re actually gay and Myra is insanely jealous?”

“It was hypothetical parties.”

“I dunno, man, Myra seems the jealous-”

“It’s been good to see you again.” A hand is thrust into his face, and Richie gets the picture.

“Okay,” he says brightly, and shakes Eddie’s hand because why the fuck not. He beams down at the scowl he’s met with. “You too, Bette Davis. If you’re ever in the mood for a riot-”

“I’ll bear you in mind,” Eddie cuts in. “Goodbye, Mr Tozier.”

Richie sits back down, watches him pay Fernando at the counter and leave out the door like he’s been blasted out, this strange little guy with an untouchable face. Huh. Well isn’t _he_ the most interesting person Richie’s met.

He leans back in his seat and takes his time finishing off his coffee, and then reaches across the table and finishes the rest of Eddie’s for good measure. The face of disgust he imagines the guy pulling makes him chuckle to himself. Eddie Kaspbrak, huh? Who’d have thought it?

“Small world,” he mutters to himself, before dropping a handful of shrapnel onto the table as a tip and heading out the door himself. He let Eddie have a head start, after all – wouldn’t want to catch him up.

He returns to the protest – that was the point of the whole thing anyway, talk to the press then get the hell back to it – and is immediately set upon by Patty. Okay, he’s sort of set upon, since he finds her still chained to the doors of whatever stocks building this is; he never did do his research on this shit, mainly because living with Patty meant he didn’t need to. She stops halfway through a rousing chant of “We’re here, we’re queer, we won’t be feared!” to shout across at him. “HEY, RICH, WHERE ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN DID YOU FALL INTO A WELL GET OVER HERE.”

He gets over there. “How’s it hanging, Pats?”

“You took your time! And here I was thinking you were going to make a joke about being all tied up.”

“Low hanging fruit, Pats, I pick my moments.”

She hums thoughtfully. “So. How’d it go?”

Patty Blum is so much more than what Eddie’s article is sure to reduce her to. In Richie’s eyes, at least, it’s impossible to contain her within simple words on a page. With her buzzed hair (a new addition) and thick black eyeliner, she burns with a kind of fury Richie supposes she got from the brother he never had the chance to meet. She’s by no means the leader of anything, and away from a crowd she’s pretty quiet and – dare he say it – mousey. But here, she roars.

“It went fine,” he answers, leaning on the Doric pillar beside her. Yeah, he knows his Doric from his Corinthian, take _that_ professors. “Dunno why he wanted to talk to you, of all people. No offence.”

“None taken. I was the only one who said yes when his people asked and didn’t mind him using my name.” She shrugs. “Kay didn’t think it was a good idea, but Kay isn’t here, sooo what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” She glances at him properly, the anger in her eyes passing through and leaving him with the actual Patty – not Article Patty or Activist Patty, Real Patty. “Did he ask about Patrick?”

“You know he did.”

“And?”

Richie shuffles his feet. “He knew most of it already. What can I say, our little dude likes research.”

She squints at him, suspicion in her gaze. “You did say nice things about me, didn’t you?”

Richie fakes a look of surprise. “You mean I _wasn’t_ supposed to tell him you’re just a bunch of muskrats in a trench coat?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Isn’t that you?”

“Guilty as charged, it was a bluff all along.”

She smiles, and Richie wishes she’d smile more. It brightens up her face, takes away the edge. But she needs that edge, Richie knows that, and she’s suffered enough so that smiling is a rare delight.

She hums again. She does it a lot. Richie’s used to it. Then she says, “Can I, um, ask you something?”

Richie blinks. She sounds serious. “Anything, my sweet.”

She bites her lip. “Uh… does… does my hair look weird?” She tilts her head towards him, he guesses to emphasise the peach fuzz covering her head. “Is it too much?”

“And you’re asking the guy with blue hair?” he deadpans.

“Richieeee.”

“Patty. You have an excellently shaped head. Like an egg. Only not.” Richie grins. “Show off that round little noggin.”

“Oh man, forget I asked, I have wigs.” She tries to check the time on her watch, but her wrist is both too far away and tied in such a way that she can’t see it. She huffs. “How long have I been here?”

“Three hours,” the girl beside her answers.

Patty huffs again. “I’m hungry. Why didn’t I think that through?”

Richie comes to the rescue. “Because you are committed to our worthwhile cause and didn’t stop to think of your own discomfort?”

“Mmm, no, that’s not it. I think I’m just stupid.”

“Oh, right…”

She pouts at him. “You know you love meeee?”

He cringes. “Oh, Patty, noooo not the puppy dog eyes, I _just_ got back from luuuunch.”

“If you loved me you would goooo.”

“Maybe I doooon’t.”

“Don’t be meeeeeean.”

He’s distracted by the sound of his name shouted through the crowd. He jerks his head up to see some kid pushing his way through the throng of people, waving a hand around like he’s desperate for someone’s attention. “TOZIER,” he’s shouting. Strange. No one knows his surname here except Patty. He sure as hell doesn’t know that kid.

Richie takes a megaphone left beside Patty and raises it to his mouth. “Yeah?” he shouts back, leaving Patty at her post with a wail of “Richieeeee you better be disappearing to go get me a waffle or so help meeee-”

The kid’s eyes glance over him once before he notices the megaphone in his hand. “Phone call!” he shouts.

Richie’s eyes narrow in confusion. “I got a phone call?” he says, still through the megaphone. The screech that accompanies it makes everyone wince.

The messenger nods and directs him to follow. Richie does, weaving through the crowd after the brightly coloured jacket the kid’s wearing. “Who is it?” he asks.

“Dunno, man. Came through a payphone, other side of the street.”

Richie wonders what sort of self-preservation instinct this guy has if he’s answering random New York payphones, but hey, who is he to judge?

There’s a small huddle of teenagers and college kids surrounding the booth when Richie gets there, and they part like the Red Sea before Moses. He thanks them and steps inside, lifting the upturned receiver to his ear. “Uh, hey, this is Richie.” He pauses. “Is this God?”

“Hardly,” the phone bites back.

Richie grins. “Eds! Can’t get enough of me, eh?”

“Shut up, don’t call me that,” it grouses. “This is a courtesy call, asshole.”

“Ooh, colour me curious.”

A huff. “Look, the police are closing in. You guys need to disperse before they get there, they got warrants.” A pause. “Or at least be prepared for a fight, because you’re going to get one.”

Richie goes still, the grin slipping off his face. He’s not afraid of the cops – he’s not – but Patty could lose her job if she’s arrested again, and if they find out what she was arrested for it’ll be over. And she really likes her job…

“You sure?” he asks.

“Positive,” Eddie answers. “I wouldn’t lie about this shit.”

He jerks his head away from the phone and whistles through his teeth. A few heads turn. He raises the megaphone again. “The Feds are coming!” he hollers through it.

“SCATTER,” someone shrieks and the protest devolves into chaos.

Richie returns to the phone. “They got the message.”

“Yeah no shit, why the hell are you using a megaphone so close to people you could blow their ear drums out and-”

“Auditory health aside, thanks a bunch, man. Thought you’d let ‘em come, would’ve been wonderful for your article.”

“Fuck the article,” Eddie says, “these are people’s lives. They’re not bargaining chips for a good story.”

Hmm. There’s some of that fire there, the passion Richie had told him about in the café. It’s not much, just a little spark – but it’s enough.

Richie looks around, more to see if he can spot a flash of uniform or someone headed to the people chained up with a key, but his attention immediately snags on another payphone, just down the street. There’s a man stood in it – not unusual – but it’s a man in a suit, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Richie stares at him for a moment, telling himself there’s no way. But then a voice comes down the phone, demanding, “Well? Are you even still there?” and the little figure throws up a hand too perfectly timed to be anyone else.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Richie says.

The figure stiffens. “How do you-?” Then his head turns. Catches Richie staring. They face off, two panes of glass between them and the panic outside. The cigarette droops in his mouth. Eddie recovers quickly. “I don’t make a habit of it,” he mutters.

“It’s a filthy and disgusting habit,” Richie agrees. “Very good for destressing, though. Very phallic, some would say.”

Eddie grunts. “Get out of here, idiot,” he says.

“Still a no for lunch?”

“GOODBYE, RICHIE.”

He puts the phone down and a surge of people running down Wall Street eclipses him from view. Richie ducks out of the phone box, squinting into the crowd, but Eddie’s gone. Spirited away by the crowd. Richie shakes himself and goes to free Patty from the steps of the Stocks building. Priorities. He has priorities.

* * *

The news that night reports the protests. They show the scenes before the police showed up, with songs and chants and waving banners, signs. The reporter mentions that, somehow, the activists managed to vacate the area of Wall Street they had taken hostage (‘taken hostage’, like the pharmaceutical companies weren’t doing that to them already) before the police showed up. There’s rumours of a mole on the inside, tipping them off. “The NYPD plans to investigate this breach of intelligence,” the reporter says to his colleague in the newsroom, “but it’s equally likely that it was simply a sympathetic ear on the street. Nevertheless, the investigation continues and the ringleaders of the protest are yet to be found.”

“I can’t believe it,” Myra says from the small kitchen of Eddie’s apartment. She’s making linguine, a new obsession of hers that Eddie can’t bring himself to confess is inedible. “They were so close to making arrests! Imagine the shots we could have got. Mac’ll go crazy.”

“We got plenty of shots,” Eddie says from his spot on the couch, leaning forward as they show the grainy footage salvaged from the cameraman. He nurses the beer he doesn’t even like as he’s shown the hand-painted signs on bedsheets, on cardboard, screaming at the viewer that they are dying and no one is listening.

“Yeah, I’m sure Mac is going to _love_ the shirtless picture we got of Richie Tozier,” she comments.

Eddie shrugs. “It’s evocative. Mac’ll lap it up.”

“Mac wanted blood.” She huffs. “Shame. It could’ve made an even better story if there was some of that.” Eddie doesn’t reply. He doesn’t trust himself to. “Anyway, I hope whoever it was that tipped them off is proud of themselves. I wonder how they’ll sleep tonight knowing there’s a bunch of violent criminals still out there.”

Eddie stays quiet. The footage has caught the scene when the protesters climb onto the bus. There’s a flash of vibrantly blue hair, a denim jacket with paint splattered all over it, and Eddie feels something in his gut twist. _Stupid fucking moron._

As Myra sets down the linguine, in its rubbery tentacled glory, he says, “I reckon they’ll sleep just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: the protest depicted here is based (read: quite loosely) on the ACT-UP demonstrations in the early 90s in New York. The slogans and shirts are all things that were said and worn, since I'm a stickler for picky details like that. We'll have another time jump in the next part, and everything really starts to kick off ;) If you know When Harry Met Sally, you can guess the vague timeline.
> 
> Coming soon: Stan Uris and his FiloFax


	3. Part three: New York, Summer, 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part 3! 
> 
> This includes two very important breakups, Stan and the FiloFax (amongst other things) and Eddie and Richie bumping into each other for the last time before they decide they might as well let fate happen.
> 
> cw for some more homophobic language (from Henry this time, not that he's named)
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far! They're really appreciated and help to keep me writing. As well as on here, you can also hit me up on my fic account, @monoclepony or my personal @purple_tealeaf if you fancy :)

Eddie is many things, but he is _never_ late. It’s a fundamental fact about him, as ingrained into his personality now as his aversion to shellfish. It’s something he’s had to work at, something he’s forced into a box like laundry until it stays there, crumpled and creased but there. He sets alarms. He has the most accurate watch on the market. He does it all because he refuses to be late, ever. Being punctual, he knows, is the way to make a good impression, and continuing to be on time keeps up that good impression.

Which is why when Eddie arrives at his favourite café for his weekly lunch with his friends ten minutes later than expected, they stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Sorry, shit, sorry, shit,” he chants as he drags the chair back and falls into it, under the judgemental eye of the waiter nearest them. “I’m late, I know, shit, sorry, shit, it was uh… business.”

It wasn’t business, and he’s sure they know that.

Eddie’s friends share a look, and the one nearest him says, “It’s fine, we just assumed you were either, oh I don’t know, stuck under something heavy or in mortal peril. The usual thing it’d take you to be late to lunch.”

This friend is Stanley Uris, reclined in his seat as his salad is set down before him. He apparently ordered for Eddie too, as a similar looking salad appears in front of him a beat later. Eddie met him by chance a couple of years ago; he was working late at the office and took a shortcut home. Stanley was coming out of a bar downtown in a skirt and heels after starting a fight with a drag queen. Eddie had band aids in his briefcase, and Stanley had a coupon for a taco place close by that was about to expire.

That rather effectively sums up their friendship.

After that chance encounter Stanley apparently deemed Eddie fun enough to hang around with, told him to call him, “Stan, please, you’re not my Aunt Gilda”, and that was it. Eddie never realised it could be so easy.

He’s allowed to think that Stanley’s got a sort of beauty about him; because, hell, Stan _does_ have a sort of beauty about him, it’s a statement of fucking fact. Eddie has seen the way his dark hair curls around his face when it’s just been washed, and how he fucking owns every room he walks into in a quiet, demure sort of way. To sum up, Eddie’s not blind. Part of him was cautious about sticking around, about what it meant – but then he realised it didn’t have to mean anything, so he went and stuck around anyway. And he is so glad he did.

“Anyway, you’re just in time to hear the end of Bill’s date from hell,” Stan adds, his eyes sliding right over to the seat opposite him.

“Okay, it was not that buh-bad,” Bill says, his stammer pushing rudely to the forefront of his mouth as he speaks.

Oh, Bill.

Bill Denbrough is a writer the same way Eddie is a writer; he does it as a side hustle whilst actually getting paid by his other, less exciting job as a copywriter. The difference between them is that Bill sold out, turned his half-baked novel into pulp horror fiction and got it on the shelves. He always claims it’s his biggest mistake, but at least he got the thing published. Eddie’s still got forests of half-finished drafts in his desk drawer at home.

He met Bill through Stan – they were friends for years, since they were kids, and that kind of boggles Eddie’s brain a little. It must have been nice, having a childhood where your friends weren’t scared off by your overprotective mom. He envied them in the beginning, but now it’s just a fact he knows about them. Something else he knows is that _he’s their friend too,_ and he likes how that sounds. 

Myra thinks they’re the strangest trio of people thrown together, but Eddie thinks they make more sense to him than anyone he shares his office with.

“It was just… unorthodox,” Bill continues. Eddie marvels at the fact he doesn’t stammer at the word ‘unorthodox’.

“He took you to a magic show,” Stan points out, deadpan as usual. “You were the oldest people there.” He looks to Eddie for support. “The guy brought his _kids_.”

“Oof,” Eddie says dutifully.

“He introduced me as ‘Dad’s Friend From Work’,” Bill says, warming to the story now, “like, cuh-cuh-c’mon man, you felt me up in an eh-eh-elevator.”

Eddie winces. Shit, dating really is a minefield. Since he happened to trip and fall into his relationship with Myra he’s never had the pleasure of experiencing it for too long, thank God, but poor Bill always seems to step in the wrong places.

He once thought that he and Bill would make a good match if circumstances were different, but only logistically. Being ‘logistically compatible’ isn’t the most tempting of offers, so he never thought about it any more than that brief musing. “Did you walk out?” he asks.

“Cuh-Couldn’t,” Bill replies sadly, staring down at his plate. “The show stuh-started, it would’ve been rude.”

“There was a clown so Bill shit himself,” Stan stage-whispers behind his hand.

“Shuh-shut up, Stan.”

“I don’t blame you. They can probably smell fear.”

“Shut u-up, _fuck_ ,” Bill hisses, swatting at him playfully. “Enough about m-me, what about your thing with duh-David?”

Stan sighs. “He is never going to leave her,” he says, so matter of fact it hurts. “I could be Brad Pitt. I could be _George Clooney_.”

“Of course he isn’t going to leave her,” Eddie says, the way he always does. God, it shows just how powerful an unrequited love is when _Stan,_ of all people, can get so hung up on some crusty married guy. “Why do you even bother, man?”

Stan stares him down. “The sex is VERY good, Eddie.”

Bill snorts into his drink as Eddie chokes on his. “You’re the w-worst,” he complains.

“Never heard you give any complaints,” Stan responds. “Anyway, since it’s official we are both disasters, we’re at least balanced out with Eddie, who’s got it so sorted with Myra he’s probably going to announce his engagement any time soon.”

Eddie freezes. Oh no. He was afraid of this. “Er, well, actually…”

“Duh-don’t,” Bill cuts in, holding up a hand. “Stop. Don’t try to dee-deny it. You two are perfect. You got the fancy apartment, the job, the cuh-cuh-commitment…”

“Bill,” Stanley said sharply. He’s looking at Eddie, and Eddie knows he’s figured it out. Stan was always good at reading him – almost too good.

Bill, however, has the consciousness of a fucking duck, so carries on. “You been dating for fuh-five years, Eddie, that’s like… insane. M-maybe we should all just shack up with w-w-wome-”

“MyraandIjustbrokeup,” he says in a single breathless rush. It’s just as well, since it was going to burst out of him like an alien if he couldn’t say it any sooner. When Bill shuts his mouth and Stan blinks in reply, he tries again. “Myra… Myra and I just broke up.” This next attempt is a little calmer.

The table goes quiet. “Oh sh-shit,” Bill says.

And then Stan is getting up, pulling Eddie into a hug and _oh_ the smell of clean linen and juniper envelopes him like a hug all its own. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and oh _fuck_ no Eddie is not going to get emotional here, at lunch, when he didn’t cry the whole time he spoke with Myra.

“Thanks,” he chokes out instead.

Stan pulls away but holds him at arms’ length, his eyes boring into Eddie’s like two olive coloured radars. “Eddie, I need you to know,” he says, heartfelt, “that I hated that woman with every fibre of my being and you deserve better.”

“Yeah, well.” He wriggles free, knowing that’s not enough but not sure of what else to say. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and it just makes sense to me.”

Five years. Shit, it had really been that long? They had changed jobs, moved apartments twice and got a dog in that time, and now it was done. The first tie binding them together as people had been snipped, and now? Now he has to set about cutting the rest. “God, I hope she lets me keep the dog,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“She will,” Stan answers calmly. “That dog hates everyone except you.”

“What h-happened, man?” There’s Bill, asking the important question. “I thuh-thought you two were the r-real deal.”

Okay, well, here it goes. It was bound to happen eventually, and even though his heart is pounding out of his chest and his insides are turning to some sort of anxiety soup, Eddie knows it has to happen. So here it is. At lunch. Over a salad, of all things. Eddie stares at Bill, his long-suffering friend and says, with as much feeling as he can muster, “because I’m not as straight as I thought I was and I’ve run out of excuses not to sleep with her, Bill.”

“Oh.” Bill drops his fork back onto his plate with a clatter. “Y-yeah, that’ll do it.”

Eddie exhales slowly. He lets go of the tablecloth he was gripping in both hands as the admission sends out ripples through the restaurant, across the sidewalks, all the way to Central fucking Park. It could’ve been worse, at least. Hardly worth the anxiety attack on the way over.

“What Bill is _trying_ to say,” Stan says, shooting a Bill a glare, “is that he’s also proud of you.”

Eddie squirms. “Well, that’s not the only reason. There were others.”

“Did she go cr-crazy?”

“Sort of,” Eddie admits. Myra dropped a plant pot and sent shards of ceramic skidding across the floor, told him he had got to be kidding her and screeched that it was those ‘two weirdos you hang around with’ putting the idea in his head. “She, uh… wasn’t happy. I think she blames you.”

“Wow, what a concept, turning you less straight. How original,” Stan ponders. “It’s any excuse with that woman. She always hated me, I know she did. She never looked me in the eye, like I was going to bite if I ever noticed.” He almost seems proud of it.

“She saw you in garters and a corset, Stan,” Eddie points out. “The time we came early to boardgame night?”

“Oh y-yeah,” Bill grins. “You’d had an early g-gig. Your Vivien Lee-Leigh, remember?”

“I won a prize,” Stan sighs wistfully.

“Yeah, well. Myra screamed like she saw a spider and said we were never going over early again.”

Stan sniffs. “Some people are just prudes,” he states calmly, and shares a smile with Bill. “I still have those pantyhose. I think they really show off my calves, right Bill?”

“Und-d-doubtedly,” Bill answers loyally.

“Anyway,” Eddie says, steering the conversation back, “you don’t need to worry. It’s fine. Honestly. I’m fine. I gave it a go with Myra, it didn’t work out. We move on.”

“G-god, you seem so healthy,” Bill sighs. “Wish I came out of relationships like that.”

Stan catches Eddie’s eye and grimaces. They both knew how Bill came out of relationships, and the answer was Not Very Well. The ‘Ice Cream At 3AM And Crying’ kind of Not Very Well.

“Then I think you’re ready,” Stan announces, and dives into his messenger bag he’s got nudged under the table without another word. Eddie stares at Bill, silently questioning what the hell is going on. Bill just shrugs, looking as lost as Eddie. “I never thought I’d be able to… thought this day would never come… hang on…” Stan mutters, then with an ‘aha!’ of triumph he brings out what Eddie identifies as a bright blue FiloFax.

As Eddie stares blankly at it, still confused, Bill lets out a groan. “Oh no, c-c’mon Stan…”

“He says he’s ready,” Stan replies, opening up the FiloFax and leafing through it.

“Am I?” Eddie says weakly, squinting at the pages. It looks like an address book version – it’s alphabetised, at least – but Stan is flicking through it too fast for him to pick anything out. “Stan, what-?”

“Here we are.” Stan plucks a page from the book and brandishes it like a business card. “Betty Ripsom. She’s pretty and she plays polo. Fancy sort, parents are Old Money.”

Horror floods into Eddie as he realises exactly what the FiloFax is. “Stan I’m not ready,” he blurts out, loud enough for the diners next to them to pause their own lunches.

Stan shrugs and puts the page back. “Okay, too rich, I get it. You want something new. You said you don’t think you’re that straight, how not straight? I have a sliding spectrum.” When Eddie just stares in horror at him, Stan ignores him and returns to flicking. “Hmm. How about Alex Fletcher? If you wanna go for different but not too different, she’s very-”

“Alex Fletcher is with that w-writer,” Bill points out, reaching over to spear one of Stan’s tomatoes off his plate. “And she likes outdoor s-sex, Eddie would hate th-that.”

Stan frowns. “She’s taken? Really?” He pauses. “Happily?”

“Think so.”

Eddie watches in stunned silence as Stan earmarks the page, then returns it to the FiloFax. He looks to Bill furiously. “Don’t fucking _help_ him,” he hisses.

Bill just shrugs. “Muh-makes a change that it’s y-you. It’s usually me.”

Stan is continuing the search, and it’s when he says, “What about a guy? This one’s a little rough and ready, pounds like a jackhammer,” that Eddie finally snaps.

“That’s enough!” he complains, slamming his hands down on the table so hard the cutlery rattles. “Stan. I know you are trying to do… something right now, but I broke up with Myra because I realised I wasn’t being myself. I don’t need to go jumping into another relationship straight away. I need to figure out who _I_ am first.”

It all sounds very calm coming out of his mouth, but there’s a full-scale fire going on inside him. Leaving Myra was probably a good decision – _probably_ – but his whole body is still so very much locked in panic mode. How is he going to live in New York as a man trying to figure out who he is? That’s something you go through in your early 20s, when you have time to kill exploring that shit. Eddie is walking into this minefield on 31 year old legs, and that very concept terrifies him. Being alone, however, terrifies him even more. He’s just going to have to live with that.

“I didn’t say it had to be a relationship,” Stan says coolly.

“Wh-STAN.”

“Cuh-c’mon Stan, lay off him,” Bill grins. “Luh-look at the g-guy! He’s in good sh-shape. He’s stable.”

Eddie appreciates that. Maybe he has a career ahead of him as an actor.

“Fine, fine,” Stan throws up his hands. “Come to a couple bars with me, then. Watch me work my magic, find a nice guy, get yourself laid.”

“Oh my god, no.” Eddie fixes him with a glower. “And what the fuck, I could get laid with Myra if I wanted to.”

Stan raises his brows. “Could you. Could you really.” They aren’t even questions. They’re statements.

“Wow. Fuck you. Not all of us can dress up like Scarlet O’Hara or… or Cindy Crawford to get what we want.”

Stan squints at him. Anyone else and Eddie would know he’d fucked up. Stan’s talented at what he does. He’s fucking amazing at it, actually. Eddie isn’t really belittling it, he’s just being a dick. However, Stan’s incredible talent of not giving a single shit has spared their friendship countless times and meant he’s fully aware when Eddie is just being a dick. So when Eddie makes a sneering comment like that, Stan just throws a breadstick at him and they consider it done. This is exactly what he does, and Eddie doesn’t dodge because he knows he deserves it.

“I’m just saying you should give it a try,” he says as Eddie’s dusting off breadstick crumbs from his suit.

Eddie raises a brow at him. “I don’t have the looks or the height.”

“You have cheekbones and Cindy’s 5ft 9, that’s exactly your height.” Eddie huffs at this. Way to rub it in, Stan. “But that isn’t what I meant and you know it.”

Eddie sighs. He knows what Stan means. The way he says it like he’s suggesting a new kind of fabric softener, not visiting a gay bar and picking someone up, is baffling to Eddie. It can’t be that easy. Surely it feels the same way for everyone that it does for him – like someone’s letting him out a back gate, but they yank back on his leash if he strays too far.

“Women clearly don’t do it for you as much as you thought, so…” Stan shrugs.

“I dunno,” Eddie says, the fear spiking in his gut, “Maybe I just didn’t like _one_ woman.”

Stan considers this for a moment, before concluding (a bit too loudly for Eddie’s taste), “I think you need some dick to compare.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to throw the breadsticks, his face blazing with heat. He looks to Bill for back-up, but he just sort of smiles and shrugs helplessly. “You did tell me you thuh-thought you w-were-”

“Yeah well maybe I am,” he replies hastily, the hot stripe of shame licking its way down his spine, “but I don’t know for sure. Also I was drunk when I told you that. A-and there are other ways to find yourself other than grinding on some soak in a dark room.”

“Th-that _is_ fun, though,” Bill points out.

Eddie takes a gulp of water, giving up.

“I’m just saying you don’t want to be stuck a bachelor,” Stan says kindly, returning his precious FiloFax to its space in his bag. “There’s plenty of nice ones out there, but you better hurry. You know what happened to Gareth.”

Eddie blinks. “Who the fuck is-”

“He came to the party last year. Anyway, he split with his man and everyone said he should take his time, no pressure to go back out there.” Stan’s gaze becomes sombre. “Two months later, he was dead.”

Eddie stares at him in silence for a moment. “Are you saying I’m going to fucking die if I don’t get some dick?”

“It’s happened.”

Eddie pauses. “Wait, didn’t Gareth have bowel cancer?”

“That’s not related to the story.”

“It’s kind of fucking related, _Stan_.”

“Semantics.” Stan leans in close. “Look, I mean it. All the good ones will go, and you’ll be one of those guys with a hundred dogs that gets a weird city nickname.”

“True,” Bill muses, “S-since you already got the one.”

That sinkhole in Eddie’s stomach opens up again. “Right,” he says bleakly. “Thanks for that. You’ve really helped.” He sighs. “What am I gonna do?”

“Pu-put him up for adoption.”

“I meant me, Bill.”

* * *

“I don’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“I mean I really don’t believe it.”

“Try being me, see how it feels.”

Paint splatters the canvas in an explosion of blue. The art studio is bathed in an almost otherworldly light, golden beams stretching across the room like slowly waking cats and casting everything in a soft sort of yellow. Richie never liked the colour yellow.

He stands in the back corner of the space next to a workbench that groans under the weight of all the paint pots there. He’s wearing clothes that aren’t grubby shirts and sweatpants and his hair is washed, so he’s doing better than yesterday. Every day needs to be taken like it’s a marathon, and he’s managed to pick himself up from the third fall of the race. He hasn’t shaved in a while, so the 5 o’ clock shadow is quickly turning into the dark twilight of a beard, but fuck it – Richie doesn’t care, and that’s the only thing he can currently focus on. He doesn’t care.

Yeah, he fucking wishes.

He scuffs his shoes as Patty turns around, her dark hair beginning to stage an escape out of the tie she’s bundled it into. It’s getting long again, but she’ll wait until it’s close to her shoulders before she cuts it. He doesn’t need to see how she’s in paint-spattered overalls and looks better than him, but he sees it anyway and hates himself for it. She cocks her hip as she stands there, and squints like looking at him for too long is a little blinding. “He really just told you he didn’t want to be married anymore?”

“Basically.” Richie folds his arms and leans back against the wall as Patty chooses another pot – this one a darker blue. “I came home from a shift and found him there packing up boxes.” He sighs. “He didn’t think I’d be home, but Kay let me go early ‘cus I had a hard call and then the power cut out.” He’s been working at the Turtle Shell Centre since it opened. It was Kay’s idea: start up an LGBT hotline to help kids the way she wishes she’d been helped, get it out there, and get people talking. It kind of exploded from there. Richie’s job started off voluntary but now he’s on the payroll and making a difference just by using his voice. Unfortunately, helping out queer kids doesn’t pay the maintenance bills for the building they use. “Anyway, I’m stood there explaining this to him as he continues to pack around me,” he says, “‘cus if I acknowledge what’s happening then that makes it real to me.”

Patty makes a face. “Richie…”

“I know, I know.” He washes a hand over his face. “It was stupid.”

“Well, conflict’s never been your strong suit,” she admits. “So, uh… what happened next?”

“Well,” Richie tightens his grip around his arms, “When I finally stop rambling about the severity of power shortages in Alphabet City’s ex-radio stations I finally ask whether he’s having some sorta clear-out, ‘til I realise all my stuff is still there and there’s literally _none_ of his left out.” He shakes his head. “Then he looks at me, right at me, and says he’s moving out.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit. I think he’s joking, so I laugh, but then he looks dead fucking serious and I realise this is it, this is what I’ve been dreading the whole time we’ve been together and it’s here, it’s arrived, happy fucking birthday to me. I ask him if it’s something I did, like the time I made him spit out wine at dinner with his boss, and I guess I was expecting some ‘it’s not you it’s me’ bullshit. But what do I get? I get a look like he’s sorry, and then he says he can’t be connected to me anymore. That’s the word he used, ‘connected’, like we’re breaking off a fucking business transaction.”

He bites his lip, and it’s tender from where he bit it a few minutes ago walking to Patty’s studio. He can see it in his mind’s eye all over again: the way Connor’s staring at him. It’s burned there, in the back of his head, like scar tissue. The drawn-down brows and the overlarge eyes that he knows mean he’s telling the truth because when he lies he narrows them ever so slightly and he knows these things because he’s been fucking _married_ to him for _FIVE YEARS-_

He’s not breathing right. He needs to remember how to do that.

He takes a breath. He carries on.

“He said that for him, it’s over. He can’t do it anymore, he’s got a reputation at work and he needs to keep it going if he wants to make it anywhere. I figured it was coming, I mean he’s not taken a shift at the centre for _months_ but he said it like it’s all an inconvenience to him. He called our ‘not-wedding’ ceremony ‘a good bit of publicity for the movement’, Pats. Publicity. Like I didn’t stay up for a week writing vows for him like the stupid schmuck I am. But now it’s ‘all too much’, he says, and ‘it’s done its job’, he says, and ‘there’s no need for it anymore’. That we can get on with our lives, like… like this was just a fun fucking assignment for him.”

Patty picks up the pot and throws it with a heavy grunt at the canvas. It hits with a wet splat and drips down slow, like blood at a crime scene. “I don’t get it, he seemed so happy. Sure, you dropped a couple rallies, but I just guessed you were settling down a bit. Getting yourself domesticated.”

“Yeah, well now I feel like I’ve been dumped somewhere half feral, like a pet no one wants.” Richie hands her another paint pot which she takes with a grateful smile. “So I say I’d drop more, that I wouldn’t pick up so many shifts at the centre, that I’d work harder at what we have. And he just says there’s nothing to work harder _at._ ”

“Oh, ouch. That’s particularly harsh. Then what?” Patty’s expression falters when she notices the look on his face. “Oh no, did you cry and tell him you loved him?”

“Yes,” Richie admits, causing a groan from Patty. “C’mon, what was I supposed to do, have dignity?? How long have you known me? Dignity does not exist for me, dignity sits in the corner and laughs at me.”

“And?”

Richie sighs, the heaviest he’s done since letting himself in. The scars begin to pull and bleed a little at the memory. “He said that he was really sorry, but he didn’t think he ever loved me that way.”

“Oh wow, yeah, he’s a dead man.”

Ah fuck, this is what he was afraid of. “Pats, it’s not worth it. I didn’t come here so you’d go and hunt him down for me. If you wanna kick the shit out of someone, kick the shit outta me.” He pokes himself hard in the chest. “I’m the one who’s been kidding myself all this time. Part of me always knew he didn’t love me, and he’d fucking break me, but I played along. Guess I didn’t wanna see it, y’know? Buried my head in the sand – or in this case, the fucking pillows.” He puts a hand over his face again. “Fuck, I’m pathetic.”

“That’s not true,” Patty says, and bless her she really does look ready to walk out the door, track Connor down and hit him with something heavy. Maybe a paint pot. Richie loves her for that, and knows Connor wouldn’t have a chance in hell if she did go after him. “You worshipped him, Rich. You can’t blame yourself for being in love.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what I get for trying.” His voice feels heavy to match the weight in his chest. He’s surprised to find anything in there at all. “Anyway, that’s not even the worst part.”

“What could be worse than telling you your marriage was a political statement?”

Richie sucks in a breath between his teeth. “There’s someone else.”

Patty makes a noise like the wind’s been knocked out of her.

“She volunteered at the centre for a little while. Sure as shit doesn’t now. They met at my birthday party. Fucked in our closet, apparently, so I guess there’s some kinda fucked up poetry in that.”

Patty almost drops the paint pot she’s hauling to the canvas. “ _Connor_ was Greta the Newbie’s Midnight Birthday Fling?”

“Oh, yeah.” He smiles grimly at her. “We all laughed about it like it was some big joke. Guess I won’t judge her too harshly, Connor told her he was both very straight and very single. He went to her place after he walked out, so I guess our life really was just some big fake nothing for him.”

Patty does drop the paint pot then, mainly because Richie’s been blinking back tears for the last minute and a half and they’re now threatening to spill over. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says as he folds himself into the hug she offers. “Sweetheart, fuck him. Seriously. He doesn’t deserve you.” She pauses. “How did you know he went to her-?”

“When he left I followed him, stood outside the building. Threw up, right there on the street. Bumped into her housemate, she filled me in.” He tightens his grip on her, the paint fumes invading his nose. Fine. Maybe he can get so high off them he’ll get brain damage and then he’ll never have to think about this ever again. “Think she took pity on me since I was out there barfing and bawling like an actress, so she took me to Tacobell.”

“Ew.”

“I said she felt sorry for me, not that she had taste.” Richie pulls away, swiping at his eyes before Patty can see the tears rolling down his face. He is not going to cry in front of Patty. He’s already cried three times today, he can’t allow a fourth.

“And maybe he is what I deserve, Pats. Maybe it’s the Big Guy’s way of telling me ‘ _hey fella, I’m okay with that Oscar Wilde dude and Cole Porter but you my man are not allowed so here, marry a straight dude’_.”

Patty rolls her eyes. “Come _on_ Rich, this is not some kind of cosmic punishment. This is a shitty situation. It doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”

Richie glowers at her between the gaps in his fingers. “Patty, I am in _love_ with him. And he doesn’t love me.”

He always hoped break ups would mean he would stop caring, that the switch would flip and that would be it – he could walk away without any battle wounds. Thing was, it never did quite work out that way. It was never a clean break. He always felt it. Always walked away with a bit of bone sticking out of him. The love was still there, soft in his chest and nurtured over eight long years, and now he had to just pluck it out and stamp on it, put it out of its misery and bury it in the graveyard of another dead relationship. He had to start over, again, when he was so sure he wouldn’t have to. C’est la fucking vie.

An ex once told him that for someone so cynical, he loves too much; Richie told him to go fuck himself back then, but now he thinks he may have a point.

He remembers how yesterday Connor’s key turned in the lock of his apartment (their apartment, they chose it together, it will never be Richie’s) and he hoped so badly that he’d changed his mind. But instead it was Connor’s cousin that shouldered his way into his life, built like a caveman with a mouth that sneered the way Connor’s smiled.

“He says you can have the apartment,” he grunted, throwing the keys at Richie like he couldn’t wait to be rid of them, “but he wants the car.”

They’d had sex in that car. One night, when the bed was too far away and the urge was too strong. It was awkward. They kept bumping into the gearstick and accidentally kicking the handbrake so the car lurched forward. They both agreed it was hot but they were never having car sex again. They’d laughed, heads pressed together and their breath fogging up the glass as they came down from their high.

Richie told the cousin he could take it, he didn’t want to see it again.

“Aw, don’t cry queer boy,” the cousin sneered, “You’re lucky I’m not punching your face in for fucking my baby cousin.”

Richie wanted to point out that, most of the time, it was the other way around, but he couldn’t stomach snarking about Connor at that moment in time. He just stepped back, let the cousin take what he needed. His parting words were killer.

“See? This is way easier than a _real_ divorce, right? None of that money and paperwork.”

Richie wanted to hit him, but the glint in the other man’s eye made him think that was exactly what he wanted. So he just let him leave, useless and dangling there like a puppet on a string. Richie caught a few muttered words about how he was ‘glad his baby cousin had come to his senses and shacked up with an actual woman, not a fake one’ before he slammed the door behind him.

Maybe it’s time for Richie to face facts and come to his senses too. Maybe people like him aren’t built for marriage. Maybe he’s just one of a long line of people who just fuck up monogamy.

“It’s normal to feel like that,” Patty soothes back in the present, squeezing his shoulder gently. “It happened on Friday, sweetie, it’s been four days.”

“Really? I found one of his cigarette stumps on the bedside table ashtray and I cried about it for an hour.”

“Oh you’re at _that_ level of pathetic, gotcha.”

Richie drops his hands from his face and whines. “I need a fucking lobotomy.”

“No, you need to heal. You are in a mourning period.” Patty brushes some of his hair off his face and tuts. “You need a haircut. You need a shave. You need to be spoilt.” She smiles. “Hey, one of Audra’s exes runs a salon near the centre. I could get you in, friend discount. Let ‘em work on you.”

Richie gazes down at her, unimpressed. “Tempting though that offer is, being surrounded by beautiful women sounds more like your idea of fun than mine.”

Patty looks a little conflicted. “That’s… partly the reason, yes.”

“What about Carl?”

“Carl’s a moron and he never said we were exclusive.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Come _on_ , Rich! It’ll be fun. It’ll relax you. Plus Audra really wants to meet you.”

Richie tried out a smile just to please her. It feels plastic, but authentic enough. “Okay, fine. You convinced me. But the beard stays, me and her gotta work some things out.”

“Deal,” she says, delighted, and okay if Patty’s happy Richie can live with that. She hands a pot to him. “Here, do the honours and help me finish so we can go eat.”

He squints at the canvas. “What… is it, exactly?”

“I call it ‘Rhapsody in Blue’,” she announces, framing it with her hands. “It’s for a client. He wanted Modernism.”

“It’s definitely Modern.”

“Eh, it’s a living.” Patty smiles at him encouragingly. “Go on, throw the pot.”

“The whole thing?”

“It’ll make you feel better.”

Richie sincerely doubts it, but he throws it anyway. Sky blue expands like a mushroom cloud against the rest of the colours, some combining into marbled patterns. Patty takes a step back to survey her handiwork. She smiles, which Richie takes to be a good thing. “Perfect,” she says.

Richie thinks it looks like someone has committed a gruesome murder upon a smurf, but he tries another smile too. It comes out plastic, and cracking at its edges. He hopes Patty doesn’t notice.

* * *

A week later sees Eddie in a bookshop near Lenox Hill with Stan. He’s been sticking pretty close to him since his break up; he was the bigger person and chose to move out, taking the two suitcases of stuff that was his and stacking them in Stan’s hall. Stan is a good host, and his apartment is on the specious side, but Eddie doesn’t want to outstay his welcome. Part of him is glad, though, as he doesn’t think he’d be able to stay in the apartment that used to be _theirs_ and not _his_. It would be too quiet without two people living in it, and though he never though he would be the sort of person who craved company, he’s apparently very much mistaken. Stan is easy to be around; he doesn’t mind long silences, and is quite happy to have Eddie tagging along like a lost duckling wherever he happens to go.

Today he still has dark kohl framing his eyes, crusting at the edges from the night before. The rest of the make-up is gone since he, quote: “doesn’t want to start a riot so early in the week.” They’re visiting this particular bookshop because Stan is on a mission – a mission Eddie is ultimately baffled by.

“I don’t why it has to be _you_ ,” he says as they browse the shelves idly, picking and placing books like fruit at a market. “If Bill would like him, why doesn’t Bill come talk to him?”

“Because this guy is exactly Bill’s type,” Stan replies. “Mike owns a gay bookstore, he’s gently spoken, he’s handsome, he’s tall…”

“Anyone’s tall compared to Bill,” Eddie adds, somewhat smugly. He can’t help but be proud of the fact he managed to find and befriend someone shorter than him. He’s going to cling to that fact if it kills him.

“Right, right,” Stan dismisses, “but you’re missing the point. He’s exactly Bill’s type, his dream man. He is basically his husband already.”

Eddie frowns as he picks up a book with a scantily clad man on it. He thinks he’d be classed as a ‘twink’. The very thought makes him put the book down like it scorches him. _Baby steps, Kaspbrak, baby steps._ “So…?”

“So he’s Bill.”

“Ah.”

Of course. It’s Bill. Watching Bill flirt is a painful experience, something Eddie’s only witnessed a handful of times. It’s like watching one of those car safety videos. The crash dummy flailing out of the wreckage has always held a striking resemblance to Bill.

“Fair point,” he admits. “So what, you’re gonna flirt for him now? Does this guy even know what Bill looks like?”

In response, Stan slips his wallet out of his back pocket, which is a feat in itself since his jeans are so figure-hugging (because yes _obviously_ Eddie’s noticed) and opens it to reveal…

“What the fuck, how long have you had a picture of Bill in there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Interesting answer.” Eddie raises a brow. “So, what, you’re gonna show a photo of Bill you keep in your wallet like he’s your fucking kid who won the spelling bee?”

“He’s basically my child,” Stan answers calmly, like that’s a fucking answer at all.

“You two went out once!”

“Yeah, and I have a duty of care.”

“Jesus, did I ever tell you you’re the weirdest?”

“Look who’s talking.”

Eddie smirks. “Bitch.”

“Asshole.” Stan gives him a playful shove and Eddie shoves back.

They bicker like this for a little while longer, like teenagers waiting for a teacher to turn up- in this case, it’s the future Mr Denbrough to come back from lunch – and Eddie’s halfway through telling Stan that no, no matter how good the sex is, David is never going to leave his wife for him, when Stan’s attention slips away. His eyes narrow as he tilts himself closer to Eddie. “Someone is staring at you from Personal Growth.”

Eddie looks – and is struck dumb by the man he sees flicking through a self-help book.

Oh my god. It’s Richie Fucking Tozier.

His gaze is firmly fixed on the page, behind the same Buddy Holly glasses he’s worn since Eddie first met him. His hair is no longer blue – thank fucking god – and is back to the dark brown nest it was before, sans fringe. He’s not shaved in a while, he’s wearing pretty average clothes and he’s somehow managing to blend into the backdrop despite being some six foot giant. In all, Eddie draws the conclusion that Richie doesn’t want to be seen, and hasn’t wanted to be seen for a while. Interesting.

“Huh,” he says, returning his gaze to the book in his hand. Another twink on the cover. Ugh. “I know him.”

“Oh. Who is he?”

Eddie turns the book over to read the blurb. “He’s no one,” he says absently.

“He’s a cute kind of no one.”

“Oh, you’d like him. He’s married.”

“Ouch.” Stan pauses. “To a woman?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, then realises Stan has never had to pleasure of Richie’s company and an eyeroll means nothing to him. “No,” he answers, casting another look Richie’s way. The eyes dart down just in time to stop them meeting. He’s definitely looking. Maybe he’s trying to work out where he knows him from again. “He was getting a commitment ceremony last time I met him, so basically married. He’s an activist, so was the other guy. Can’t remember his name, though. Good fucking luck to him, whoever he is.”

“He _was_ getting married,” Stan corrects. “Doesn’t mean he’s _still_ married.”

“Oh c’mon, what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he might be one of those eligible bachelors you read about.” Stan purses his lips. “If he’s an activist, how come I’ve never seen him?”

“What the hell are _you_ reading? And how the hell would I know?” Eddie asks, putting the book down and picking up another. It doesn’t matter that it’s the same book in the stack. “Guess he’s too busy with his hero husband to- wait what are you doing?”

“Making notes.”

“What the fu- put that fucking FiloFax away right now or I will stick it up your ass.”

“Like to see you try.”

Eddie is not adverse to starting a fight with Stan in the middle of a bookstore, but he also knows Mike will be back any minute and he desperately wants to see Stan trying to sell Bill to him like he’s his first-born son. He settles for a minor scuffle in a bid to grab the FiloFax – he wants to at least throw it somewhere Stan can’t get to it – but Stan is very good at holding him at an arm’s length with an elbow whilst scribbling furiously. “Stan I swear to fucking god…”

“Do you have a name to go with that tall glass of water?”

“Did I ever tell you I hate you very dearly?”

“Name please.”

“No fucking way.”

“Don’t be selfish and let one of us have a go.”

“Oh my god it’s not like that, you cannot tell me he’s attractive, he’s obnoxious. Besides, he never remembers me, so what would that say if we’d-”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie spins around to see Richie approaching him, both hands in his pockets and smiling in a quiet, familiar way. It feels like he’s moving slowly, harmlessly – like a stray hoping it’s found someone friendly. That familiar fire in Eddie fizzles out.

“Richie,” he says, straight out with it, no starting with full names or surnames. He blinks to clear his head. “Hey, uh, Richie. Shit, it’s been… a while.”

Richie’s smile widens, crinkling the edges of his eyes the way five years is bound to do to him. It doesn’t quite reach all of him, though, doesn’t light him up the way it used to. “Yeah man, been a long time.”

Eddie then remembers he still has the twink book in his hand. He promptly drops it onto the display and then fumbles to right it, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He doesn’t need to be embarrassed around _Richie Tozier_ of all people, since he doesn’t owe him shit, and yet… he is. And that annoys him.

“A-anyway, this is-” Oh. The space beside him is empty. He spots Stan making a beeline for the tall, handsome guy who’s materialised out of thin air with nothing but a simple hand raised in a feeble farewell. “- was Stanley,” he corrects, “but apparently he’s just a dick who abandons his friends. Who knew?”

Stan flips him off without even turning around and Richie chuckles quietly – but his attention is on Eddie. Eddie’s not used to being the top priority in a room, especially if he’s sharing that room with Stan. Richie’s stare isn’t intense though; it’s gentle, careful. His eyes look tired. Eddie’s not sure what they’re tired of, exactly. “How are you?” Richie asks, and something in his voice makes Eddie know he means it. Shit.

Eddie figures that shorthand for ‘ _starting everything over and trying not to have a breakdown about it’_ could be ‘okay’. So that’s what he says. “I’m okay.” Maybe if he hears himself saying it, it’ll feel true.

Richie nods, still smiling. “Good, good, and uh… how’s Myra?”

Fuck, he had to get a good memory at exactly the wrong time, didn’t he? Eddie swallows. Can he lie? “She’s fine.” Lying is fine. It’s easiest. It’s- “I hear she’s fine.”

_Oh, well fucking done,_ his inner voice sneers.

Richie’s smile fades. “Wait, you’re not with Myra anymore?”

Ugh. Well, in for a penny… “We just broke up,” Eddie says, returning his gaze to the display in front of him. The twink smoulders up at him. Uck. Why is every book in this store emblazoned with the same hairless guy? What if you’re not into that?

“Shit, that’s too bad.”

Eddie glowers at him. “Oh cut the crap, you hated her.”

“Yeah, I really did,” Richie says with the same gentle sincerity, “but I’m trying out this new thing called ‘empathy’.” He frowns. “Besides, you liked her, and breakups are rough. So.”

Eddie hates the lump that appears in his throat, he _really_ hates it, but it’s there so he has to just deal with it. “Yeah.” He shuffles his feet. “Well.” He shrugs. “Yeah.” He looks Richie over. “How’s things with the All-American Hero?”

It’s Richie’s turn to look a little awkward. “Ah. Not, uh, not so good. We’ve split.”

Okay, _now_ Eddie gets it. Why Richie seems so… subdued. “Oh wow, I’m sorry.” For some reason, Richie flinches at that. Eddie’s frown deepens. “No, I mean it, I am.”

Richie lets loose a shrug which does nothing to dislodge the weight he’s clearly carrying on his shoulders. “Eh, what are you gonna do?” he says, trying so hard to keep it light. He doesn’t quite manage it.

Eddie senses an impending awkward silence, so instead he says, like an insane person, “Wanna go talk about it?” When Richie looks startled (and rightly so, they haven’t seen each other for five years for god’s sake) Eddie continues to run his mouth. “Unless you don’t want to, I mean I’ve had it with people telling me to talk through my shit but I don’t think you count but uh we don’t have to make it weird or anythi-”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“Let’s bounce. You like experimental Jazz at all?”

“I – buh – y-what?”

* * *

“Experimental Jazz,” Richie tries again, barely able to keep the smirk off his face at Eddie’s bemused expression. “It’s Jazz that’s experimental. Pretty self-explanatory. You game?”

He asks this already headed to the door. Eddie follows behind, and Richie can tell he’s a little nonplussed that his fumbling attempt at Talking To A Human actually paid off. If Eddie turns out to be an alien visiting from another world he won’t be in the least bit surprised.

“The hell kind of question is that?” Eddie asks, tapping his friend on the shoulder as they pass. It’s to let him know he’s being whisked away by Richie off into the misting spring afternoon – or so Eddie communicates with six simple words: “I’m heading out. I’ll call you?”

The friend – Stanley, Eddie called him – stares straight at Richie and sticks him in place like a butterfly on a pinboard. Richie says nothing, because he can read the room and Stanley isn’t interested in a funny comment. A beat later though he gives Eddie a little nod like Richie’s passed some sort of test and turns back to the clerk he’s bothering. Richie lets out a breath. Whew. Shit, Stanley is a lot. He really had thought, back there in the stacks, that he and Eddie were together. They’re comfy around one another the way couples are, and Richie was too busy wondering how Eddie Kaspbrak – fucking _EDDIE ‘QUESTIONING’ KASPBRAK –_ got to keep a boyfriend like that until those eyes came on him, paralysing.

So yeah, Stanley’s intense; but then again, so is Eddie. They suit.

“It’s an important question, Eds. You like it?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” is Eddie’s reply as they step out of the bookstore.

“Great. Follow me.”

Richie steps out in the road without warning and sets off, a harmony of cab horns and Eddie’s yells bouncing after him along the sidewalk. He folds into the city like it’s a second skin, swinging off sidewalks and making turns before the path even remembers which way it goes. Eddie stumbles after him, demanding that he slow down, that he walks like a fucking sasquatch and in the end Richie grabs for his wrist without thinking and steers him around the streets too. He knows he shouldn’t, and he feels Eddie’s entire body tense in his grip, but the feel of someone else trying to keep time with his dance is too good to pass up – and maybe he’s a little greedy for it. Just a little.

They soon arrive at the spot he’s looking for; it’s gaudy and has a little neon sign with a coffee bean playing a saxophone above the door, and even though he hears Eddie whisper a soft, “what the fuck” under his breath, he doesn’t say anything. He shoulders the door open, pulls them through, and releases his wrist. Eddie immediately draws his hand close to his body like Richie’s touch burns, and Richie finds himself shrinking back. “Sorry, man, didn’t wanna lose you.”

“No, it… it’s fine.” Eddie frowns. “Just… not used to it.”

“I getcha.” He doesn’t. “C’mon.”

The place isn’t busy, so Richie lets Eddie choose a spot (by the window, far from the stage where soundchecks are being carried out) and orders a coffee for the both of them. Black Americanos likely match their moods, and are standard enough for Eddie’s tastes, he hopes. As Eddie sits down, he’s scrubbing at the skin of his wrist. Richie makes a point to ignore _that_ particular stab at his chest.

_No one wants to touch you you break what you touch you make everything bad your hands your touch your feelings…_

Eddie, to his surprise, is the first to talk. “So I broke up with her, let’s get that settled right now,” he begins, bringing a fist down on the table, and Richie’s not sure why it sounds like a threat but it does. He’s maybe a little delighted.

“Guess it starts with my Mom. Yes, I know, classic psych case, Guy Dates Woman Who Is His Mother, yuck it up. But I honest to God didn’t realise until. Well. Anyway.” Eddie takes a drink. Richie notices his hands are shaking. “All you need to know is I talk to my Mom on the phone on her birthday and national holidays, and that’s it. She fucked me up. And I told myself I wouldn’t get into that shit with anyone else, and for a while Myra was… fine. We got on well, moved in, all the usual stuff. Then I met Stan and Bill and she got… strange.” He frowns. “I mean, I get it – Stan wears skirts sometimes and he does Drag, he’s not the kind of guy she’s used to. But she started calling my office asking me to come straight home instead of going out with Stan and Bill, or she’d fake an illness so I came home early or didn’t invite them over. And, thing is, I had that shit pulled by my mom from age 6. So I knew what was happening, just… didn’t wanna see it.”

Richie raises his brows at this. He didn’t expect the cheery topic of childhood trauma to raise its ugly head, but hey, the guy sure is full of surprises. Even Eddie seems shocked he’s brought it up, but Richie lets him continue. He figures the little guy needs it.

“It all sorta happened over breakfast. We had this, uh, business trip to LA for a shoot she was doing on a legal case. We stayed near West Hollywood and I got sorta curious. I took her out for breakfast someplace nearby and we see this family come in. Two kids, two men. I just thought they were two single dads – happens all the time, right? – but Myra sees them she goes all still and then she says how it’s inappropriate for them to be out like that in public flaunting what they are. And I dunno, it just made me realise how we weren’t the same people. And she wants to get married, and do the whole thing properly and I guess… I guess I don’t know what I want.”

“What you don’t want is to fuck your mother,” Richie observes sagely.

Eddie’s head snaps up and for a moment Richie envisions the coffee cup and its contents sailing at his head. So he adds hastily, “Look man, Myra is pretty much a distant memory for me and I’ve never met your Mom, but it sounds like you made the right call.”

Eddie softens a little at this. “Yeah. I hope so. We talked about it a lot. I said I wanted to pump the brakes and she said she didn’t want to so I said if she couldn’t deal with my friends and who they were it might be time to finish it and then I left. And I guess I need to find a new apartment soon because Stan needs his gross suede couch back.”

Richie exhales a low breath. Well. This is a lot to have ranted at you at a million miles an hour at the best of times, but now? He’d expected a story, obviously he did, but this was…hm. Something. There are multiple questions he wants to ask, but the most dangerous one wins out. “So… you’re not banging your friend?”

As predicted, a handful of sugar sachets come straight for him. He catches one of them and flicks it back at Eddie just to be a shit. He’s maybe a little obsessed with him.

“I just poured out my fucking heart, dude, and that’s all you got to say?”

Richie shrugs. “I mean. I would.” He’s not sure he _actually_ would, but it’s worth it to see Eddie turn a tasteful shade of pink.

“Can you even _think_ in more than one syllable words?” he demands, and yep Richie is totally obsessed. His mood falters a little when Eddie asks, in an inside voice, “What about you?”

Thoughts of the whole break up, the evening under the streetlight and seeing Connor fall, relieved, into the arms of someone else. Someone with tits and curves and oestrogen. He swallows painfully and leans away from Eddie’s enquiring gaze and the large, drawn-together eyebrows. “Let’s just say it came as a pretty big surprise and leave it at that.”

Eddie fixed him with a pinched expression. “That’s not much of an answer.”

“Maybe there isn’t much to tell,” Richie shoots back. It’s playful, but has enough of an edge for Eddie to back down and relax his posture. Richie’s grateful. “It is a long and somewhat pathetic tale, Bette Davis, and I’d hate to reveal just how pathetic it is. Might make you think less of me.”

Eddie hums at this like he potentially agrees (which, fucking ouch dude) and finishes up his coffee. It’s still hot. Richie waits with a sinking stomach for Eddie to foot the bill and leave like he did back at Wall Street all those years ago. He’s had his fill of Tozier bullshit and now he wants to go back to reality.

But it doesn’t happen. Eddie orders another, and one for Richie for good measure. Hm. Richie sees what he did there. “Whatever it was,” Eddie says, turning back to him, “he was probably a jackass.”

Richie tries out a smile and finds it arrives a little more naturally than before. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. To upset you, the Jackass Overlord.”

“Ooh, 30s Eddie is bitchy. Like it.”

“30s Eddie is gonna kneecap you in a minute.”

“All you can reach, sugar.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, please, not before the music.”

Right on cue, a horn wails out the opening bars to Louis Armstrong and Eddie stiffens in his seat. “Oh my God I didn’t think you were serious,” he yells as Richie snorts delightedly into his coffee.

* * *

“At least you got the apartment,” Eddie muses. It’s been three whole hours, and once Eddie forcibly ejected them from the fucking jazz café they’ve just been… walking. Sometimes Eddie dreams about walking for forever in this city, seeing more streets and sidewalks pop up like concrete and glass flowers, but he’s never just _walked_ like this with no destination. He’s always been too busy, has never wanted or needed to slow down – but this is nice.

It’s good, talking to someone who _gets it._ Stan and Bill are great, but they’ve not had long-standing relationships to break up with like this. They haven’t had weird, life-altering epiphany breakups, either. He still hasn’t found out much about Richie’s but to look at him is enough. It’s bad, even if it’s not weird; it’s bad enough to see him slouching into his walk like he’s mortified someone might see him and drag him off somewhere.

Richie’s mouth quirks up at his suggestion, but not completely. “That’s what everyone tells me. At the end of the day though it’s just a couple walls with some memories locked in. Kinda empty without him in it.”

“Yeah. At least you don’t have to be heartbroken and househunt.”

“Ugh. That’d be the worst.” Richie eyes him. “And I’m not heartbroken.”

Eddie huffs, tearing his gaze away. “Yes, you are.” _I know. I’ve been there._ He feels like the bottom of his stomach might drop out. It’s not heartbreak, but it is _loss_ sitting deep in him. He recovers as quick as he’s able to. “It’s good to see you, Richie. Honestly. I… I gotta admit I’m surprised, I really didn’t like you when we met.”

“Oh I know. You made it painfully obvious you hated my guts,” But Richie’s smiling, so Eddie smiles too. “Whereas I have always held a candle for you, my dear Bette Davis.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You wanted to sleep with me.”

“And you said no,” Richie points out, “and it was never brought up again.”

“I can think of at least four times it was brought up again.”

“God, it is so hot when you remind me of shit I did when I was an idiot.”

“Ugh.”

“Call me out more, correction-Daddy.”

“Stop.” Eddie gives him a shove, but he’s laughing. He can’t help it. Fuck this guy for making him laugh just after splitting from his long term girlfriend.

Richie grins, and it finally looks like the dumb face Eddie remembers from before. He lights up like Eddie’s laughter fuels him. It’s a relief to finally see what he expects from him. It leads Eddie to say, “What’s the expiration date on apologies?”

Richie’s grin becomes toothy with glee. He pops his lips in thought. “Ooooh, tricky. Including leap years, and with the few debts you’ve been racking up…”

“Richie.”

They’ve found themselves in a little park, a sudden dash of green in an otherwise grey world. They stroll around it as they talk, and Eddie likes the fierce determination of the flowers growing there. Richie stops, and suggests, “Ten years?”

Eddie smiles. “Just in time, then.”

“As for the debts… dinner with me sometime next week will absolve all past owes, my lawyer tells me.”

Eddie raises a brow. “As friends?”

“Yeah. Wait.” Richie blinks. “Are we gonna be friends now? This is happening?”

“If you want,” Eddie shrugs. “Unless you still believe in the Classic-”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.” Richie waves it away. “You date women, dude, and I can resist the urge since I know you’re dangerously heterosexual.”

Eddie blinks owlishly at him. How Richie believes he’s straight is beyond him, but… then again… he hasn’t said anything otherwise?

Jesus Christ, he’s an idiot. Richie is also an idiot, but this isn’t about him. Eddie told him he left Myra because she didn’t want the same things, but had failed to mention what those things were. Or how weirdly similar they actually were, he guesses. Fuck, fuck, fu-

“Y’know, I don’t think I have any male friends,” Richie says, “So this makes you the first.”

This stops Eddie’s thoughts in their tracks. “Really?”

“Yeah. Crazy, huh?”

It can wait, Eddie decides. It can definitely wait. Obviously it can, they’re grown-ups.

Richie is humming in thought as they walk, sticking his hands in his back pockets and cricking his back at the same time. “You are also the first attractive man I’ve not wanted to sleep with. Also an achievement.”

Eddie stares at him. “That’s wonderful, Richie. Do you want my acceptance speech to the Academy now or later?”

Richie curls into himself to laugh, and Eddie catches himself missing the explosion of laughter he got five years ago. But, he supposes, it’s enough.

Yeah. It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF ACT ONE  
> \---  
> We'll have an interlude of phonecalls next, and then we'll launch into the second part of this thing oo yea


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick breather in between parts of this au: an interlude of telephone conversations, all within the course of a month.

[ **The Next Morning, Chronicler offices: 1:35pm** ]

“Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

_“You told him you were straight?”_

“S-Stan, jesus fucking – this is a _work line_ , I might have contacts trying to get through.”

“ _Well they can get in line, I consider this a very important personal call.”_

“The hell it is.”

 _“He. Thinks. You’re. Straight_.”

“Oh my god, can we please talk about this later?”

_“Eddie, I really don’t care if Denise from accounts is listening, she should start finding better gossip channels. Talk.”_

“Ugh fine. Hold on, I gotta go shut my door.”

_“Holding.”_

“…Okay, back, had to shoo Denise away from the water filter.”

_“The one so conveniently by your office door. That woman is not subtle.”_

“About as subtle as a headache.”

“ _Hm. So_.”

“So.”

“ _You told him you were_ -”

“I didn’t _tell_ him _anything_. I just… didn’t tell him I wasn’t. He assumed.”

“ _Not an insane leap, considering you’ve been practically married to Myra for the past five years._ ”

“It’s not lying!”

“ _It’s called lying by omission, Eddie._ ”

“It never came up.”

“ _But you’re telling him when you see him next?_ ”

“Why do you assume I’m seeing him again?”

“ _Because you came home looking less emotionally constipated than you’ve ever been_.”

“Wha-tha-that’s _gross_ , dude, I can’t believe-”

“ _So you’re not seeing him again?_ ”

“…”

_“Eddie.”_

“So what if I’m meeting him for dinner?”

“ _Ah, it feels good to be right all the time.”_

“Yeah, yeah, you told me so, yuck it up.”

_“So, are you and he…?”_

“No! No way, nuh uh. We’re just friends.”

_“Friends?”_

“Yeah, Stan. Friends. The thing we were until you started being a little bitch.”

_“Please, I’m your favourite bitch. Besides, you and him being friends is… going to work?”_

“Ugh, not you too! What is it with everyone? What, you think we won’t be able to keep our hands off each other because we both happen to like guys?”

“ _No, I just think you haven’t thought this through._ ”

“He’s a half-shaved yeti.”

“ _Uh huh. Not thinking things through is… hm. Not like you. Interesting_.”

“I’m a big boy Stan, remember?”

_“Said while holding your big boy fax machine and your big boy tax returns, right?”_

“I am hanging up now.”

_“Is the dinner tonight?”_

“It’s on the weekend.”

_“Well in that case-”_

“I am not stopping on my way home for eggplants from that farmer’s market so I can slip the cute girl your number, Stan.”

_“Why?”_

“Spite. And she could do better.”

_“You are a cruel little man.”_

“Hanging _up_ , Stan.”

* * *

[ **The Same Morning, The Turtle Shell Centre: 1:36pm** ]

_“You did **what?”**_

“What? Asked him to dinner? That a crime now?”

_“Get in there hot stuff! Go get yourself some!”_

“The only ‘some’ I’d be getting is his foot up my ass.”

_“Kinky.”_

“No no no. I just said it’s not like that, Pats.”

_“Oh yeah, sure, like you just spent hours with this handsome guy you’ve connected with after five years just to snag a catch-up dinner with him as friends?”_

“Uh… yeah? That’s exactly it?”

_“Pfffft.”_

“Hey don’t gimme that, he’s just a little ball of eyes, it’s like… watching a miracle of medicine get up and start walking around. He’s just a friend. Plus I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

_“How do you know?”_

“Because I called him straight and he didn’t correct me.”

_“Dang, that sounds pretty solid. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”_

“….Hm.”

_“Shit, Rich, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry, it’s-”_

“It’s fine. It… it is. Honest.”

_“Okay…”_

“Besides, I didn’t _pick_ Eddie, Pats. Not like that. I think he might actually be good for me. A male friend. Someone who won't have the problem of finding me devilishly handsome-”

_“He’s in the minority then.”_

“Why must you wound me in this way?”

_“I was complimenting you?”_

“Exactly. I'm pretty sure he thinks I have scabies.”

_“Ugh, you’re hopeless. Look, I think it could be good for you, but just be careful.”_

“Pats, he might lowkey look like a serial killer but I really think I could take him in one on one combat. I took a class once.”

_“Richie.”_

“I should get off the line, I need to go help some gay kids. You are wasting valuable helping time.”

“ ** _Richie_**.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll take mace with me to dinner.”

_“Good boy.”_

“Am I, Pats? Am I your good little safety boy?”

_“…”_

“Pats? Pats?”

**_*dialling tone*_ **

“Second time this week, I’m on a ro- oh, hello Turtle Shell, you repress we destress, how can I help?”

*overheard in the background* “STOP MAKING UP SLOGANS, TOZIER!”

* * *

[ **The Weekend, Stan’s apartment: 10:43pm** ]  
  
“Chr-Fuc-Hang o- yes?”

_“Are you home safe?”_

“Oh no, I’m a victim of a hit and run and didn’t realise until you _just_ reminded me.”

“ _Snrk_.”

“Why would you ask that if I’m the one answering the phone, numbnuts?”

_“Force of habit, I guess. I call Pats and the girls after a night out. Just in case, y’know?”_

“Oh. What could happen?”

_“Oh, wow. Edmeister. Eds. Eddie Spaghetti. Bette Davis. You want a list? You clearly haven’t spent much time with women.”_

“Don’t remind me, and none of those are my name.”

_“That’s exactly what an evil mastermind voice mimic would say, you sick sonofabitch. Is that you, Arnie?”_

“You’re so fucking weird, dude.”

_“Not a **Terminator** fan?”_

“I'm sure I've asked but I'll ask again: do you have an off switch?”

_“Someone threw out my user’s manual long ago, Eduardo.”_

“Shame they left your voicebox.”

_“You’re so kind to me. I’m so glad you weren’t horrendously murdered and no one is out there wearing your skin.”_

“I’m going to regret giving you this number.”

_“Probably. But at risk of sounding too sincere, you’re a fucking blast to be around dude.”_

“Wha-really?”

_“Yeah. You’re kinda batshit, and I like batshit.”_

“Oh. Uh. Thanks. And thanks for dinner. It was nice to go out. I miss that.”

_“You not been going out?”_

“Not really. Not really felt like it.”

_“How come?”_

“What, you want _more_ breakup venting? After what happened at dinner?”

_“I personally think you karate-chopping your glass off the table talking about how many times she gaslit you was the inspired part of the evening.”_

“Hmph.”

_“But this is good, man! Getting it all out. Like a tactical puke. Efficient. Economical.”_

“You’re a disgusting human being.”

_“Oh yeah. It’s true though, I work at a therapy hotline, I know this shit.”_

“What about you?”

_“We’re talking about you.”_

“Ugh. Fine. I haven’t gone out because it feels… I dunno. Weird? Like there’s… there’s an empty space next to me that needs filling.”

_“You don’t need an excuse to go out. Just… go. Fill that space somehow.”_

“Like you?”

_“We… we aren’t talking about me, Eds…”_

“No. We’re not.”

_“C’mon man, don’t throw the psych degree at me. This is about you.”_

“It’s about you too, dickweed.”

_“Such elegance in the language, such poise…”_

“Fuck you.”

_“... you don't happen to wanna do this same time next week?”_

“…I’m picking the place.”

_“Deal. I don’t like seafood.”_

“Sushi it is.”

_“Monster.”_

* * *

[ **One Week Later, Richie’s apartment: 10:55pm** ]

_“Home safe?”_

“Uh… yeah?”

_“Good. Hope that stain washes out. Wine can be a bitch.”_

“Your aim was straight and true, Spaghetti. Can’t do better than that.”

_“God, sorry. You made me fucking **laugh.”**_

“That’s kinda my thing. Make a couple good chucks, hope they land? You know the drill.”

_“I haven’t laughed that hard for a while.”_

“Oh, that’s heartbreaking, Bette Davis. And over a ‘your mom’ joke, too.”

_“Shut up, you caught me by surprise.”_

“My shirt’ll be fine. Not one of my favourites anyway. Besides, it will stand as a great relic of the time I made Eddie Kaspbrak laugh so hard wine came out his mouth _and_ his nose.”

_“Ugh, stop. I was just calling to check on you, don’t be a dick.”_

“To check on me?”

_“Yeah. You did it before. Called me to ask if I got back okay.”_

“O-oh. Yeah. Well I did that because in that suit you rocked up in someone was gonna think you were a millionaire and mug you in a dark alley.”

_“I wear good suits! There’s no problem with wearing-”_

“Whereas I, your resident Muppet Human hybrid, would not be looked at twice.”

_“Oh. Well. Still. Pretty sure you’re human since you’re not walking around with a hand up your ass.”_

“Flirt.”

_“Get fucked see you next week * **dial tone*** ”_

“Heh.”

* * *

 **[Another Week Later, Stan’s apartment: 6:32pm** ]

_“…and so that is why Alien is a feminist revisionist piece that critiques the lack of birth control options in this country.”_

“How often are you going to call this number?”

_“Until Eddie moves.”_

“Lucky, lucky me.”

_“You mean you don’t enjoy my enlightening conversations, Stanielsaurus?”_

“Okay, no. Never call me that again.”

_“Ooookay, noted. Do I hear an Eddie in the background? Is he home?”_

“Yeah, just got back. I’m delighted to inform you he’s discovered the power of language.”

_“And **what** language. Woof.”_

“Not far off actually, Pygmalion just ripped up one of his reports and has another one in his mouth. Eddie’s trying to get it back. There’s quite an intense tug of war going on, you couldn’t write this.”

_“I’m sorry, what the fuck is a Pygmalion?”_

“I think he’s classed as a corgi. However, I have it on good authority he’s possessed by a low-level demon.”

_“Eddie has a DOG?”_

“What part of ‘low level demon’ didn’t you grasp?”

_“Dog.”_

“Okay, excellent. Oh, here he i- Eddie, it’s your breakup project.”

_“Bye, Stan!”_

“Hello, Project.”

_“Eddie!”_

“Yes?”

_“You have a dog.”_

“Unfortunately.”

_“I feel like you forgot to tell me this really important information and I think you owe me an apology.”_

“I only got him back from Myra two days ago. She was gonna keep him to spite me but I think he burnt his bridges once he ate one of her designer shoes and then threw it back up all over the rug she spent $350 on.”

_“Um. Uh. Okay. Why. Why the fuck is he called Pygmalion?”_

“Are you okay?”

_“I’m having a moment, please answer the question.”_

“He came with that name from the shelter? You really think I’d call a fucking dog _Pygmalion_?”

_“Maybe. Stan said he’s a corgi.”_

“Oh, uh, yeah. Black and tan. I thought I liked corgis, until he turned out to be the spawn of Sata- are you sure you’re okay, that noise didn’t sound human. I can hear you wheezing.”

_“Dude. I think I love him.”_

“You do not. He’s a - DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TOUCHING THAT PAPER, I GOT YOUR NUMBER YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE.”

_“Aw, be gentle, Mr Pig is a child of divorce.”_

“Did. Did you just call my dog ‘Mr Pig’?”

_“Short for Pygmalion.”_

“Thanks, hate it.”

_“Mr Piiiiiig.”_

“Stop, he can’t hear you.”

_“We should take him for a walk sometime, man. I love dogs.”_

“And here I was thinking you were a cat person.”

_“I sense the sarcasm but the dog vs cat debate is a cruel and unjust one. I love all animals except horses.”_

“Why horses?”

_“They’re hiding something.”_

“Right, of course, perfectly normal answer. Why are you calling me?”

_“Oh, right. I need to know our boundaries.”_

“Our what?”

_“Like, can I call you whenever?”_

“This has literally never stopped you before.”

_“I mean it. When it’s late and I’m a bit – I dunno, depressed? – and I wanna be…”_

“What?”

_“…when I wanna drop the pretence that I’m fine.”_

_“…Eds?”_

“I know you’re not fine.”

_“You do?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Shit.”_

“You can talk about it whenever, idiot, isn’t that kinda what this is? Breakup therapy?”

_“Yeah but uh… it’s kinda pathetic, don’tcha think? Two friends, reuniting just to talk about their fucked up love lives?"_

“You want pathetic? I nearly called Myra today.”

_“Oh my GOD.”_

“Stan had to wrestle the phone off me so I wouldn’t. So yeah, Richie, I know what pathetic feels like. It’s all fine.”

_“Really?”_

“Why would I lie? Friends tell each other shit, dumbass.”

_“Oh. Okay, yeah.”_

“…we’re friends, Richie.”

_“Yep.”_

“…”

_“Does this mean I can still annoy Stan?”_

“He says he’s blocking your number as soon as I move out.”

_“God, he’s so hot when he’s angry.”_

“That’s mild disinterest, you haven’t seen anger.”

_“Wow, you’d really go and let me blow my load immediately at that thought?”_

“SINCERITY FUCKING OVER GOODNIGHT ASSHOLE.”

* * *

[ **Yet Another Week Later, Richie’s apartment: 7:03pm** ]

_“Hey.”_

“Mmph. What time issit?”

_“You – shit were you asleep you were asleep weren’t you fuck-”_

“Should I not be asleep?”

_“It’s 7pm.”_

“Oh, _woah._ Heh, this is a new low. Not gone to bed before 11pm since I was 12.”

_“That’s just poor sleep schedule. I’ve been sleeping by 9pm lately.”_

“Guess that’s the perk of depression. Get your rest.”

_“I’m not depressed.”_

“Oh, sure, me neither.”

_“Like I believe you.”_

“Like I believe _you_.”

_“Touché. I can leave you alone?”_

“Nah, s’okay, wossit?”

_“I need someone to tell me not to call Myra.”_

“Eddie what the fuck do not call Myra.”

_“But-”_

“No buts! This is the fourth time this week! You left her for a reason, man, you don’t wanna go back to that shit.”

_“Th-thanks. I think… yeah, I think that’s all I needed.”_

“God, you’re a strange little man.”

_“I’m average height fucknuts, and what is that supposed to mean?”_

“Exactly that. You are a strange little ma-haaa-haaaannnn.”

_“Yawning in the middle of a conversation is rude.”_

“Guess I’m rude, then. Why did you wanna call Myra?”

_“Dunno. Moment of madness, I guess. Maybe I’m spiralling.”_

“The hell you are, no one spirals sounding as calm as you. You sound like you’re questioning the amount of sugar in your coffee, not the weight of every fuck up you’ve made in your life.”

_“Well maybe it’s because Myra’s never not been a part of my life in New York so I was pinning everything on her and now she’s not in my life I don’t know who the fuck I am.”_

“Huh. Way to psychoanalyse, Bette Davis.”

_“Fuck off.”_

“Took us three whole weeks to get to the deep shit, that’s pretty good.”

_“I overshared within 12 hours of meeting you, dickwad, for some reason I open up to you about shit and this is normal and healthy.”_

“Yeah?”

_“Richie, we are in grieving periods. Breakups go through similar stages to planning funerals, you know. It’s physically exhausting.”_

“You sound like Patty.”

_“She must be smart.”_

“Ugh. Maybe you guys just read the same books.”

_“It’ll get better, man. It has to.”_

“Sure it will. The man I’m meant to spend my life with is balls-deep in pussy, Eddie, that isn’t gonna change any time soon.”

_“You know, since he’s with women now I very much doubt he’s The One.”_

“Or maybe it’s a very sick cosmic joke.”

_“Your sense of place in the universe is a cosmic joke.”_

“Yowza, Eds, that’s cold.”

_“Never said mutual therapy was gonna be fun.”_

“Eddie?”

_“Yeah?”_

“Can we walk Mr Pig soon?”

_“His **name** is **Pygmalion,** and why?”_

“Meeting your demon dog will aid in my grieving period.”

_“Fine, you can meet him-”_

“Woooo.”

_“- just don’t be disappointed when he ignores you for a tree stump or something.”_

* * *

**[The Next Morning, Stan’s apartment: 9:08am]**

“Uris residence, Stan speaking.”

_“PYGMALION BIT RICHIE.”_

_“IT WAS NOT HIS FAULT IT WAS MY FAULT I GOT HIM EXCITED”_

_“SHUT THE FUCK UP ASSHOLE MY DOG IS SATAN”_

_“HE DIDN’T MEAN TO”_

“You’re both ridiculous, I’ll bring the first aid kit.”

_“THANK YOU STAN.”_

_“THANK YOU STAN.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 5 will be deep into Friendship Territory: there's insecurities, trying to get back out there and their...mixed successes.
> 
> As always, you can find me on @monoclepony or @purple_tealeaf on twitter if ye fancy.


	5. Part four: New York, Fall 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this took a while... 
> 
> This was meant to chart all the way up to New Year's Eve, but it became so big I decided to cut it in half. This chapter is still gigantic though, so I hope it's worth the wait! 
> 
> This is mainly just a lot of self indulgent ~friendship montage~ but with Fall comes changes, and they're a mixed bag...
> 
> If you enjoy this chapter, please leave some kudos or drop a comments; any engagement is great because I am a slave to the validation machine. You can also find me on Twitter @monoclepony (I'm trying to be active I swear)

“Are you busy?”

That’s how every phone call with Richie starts lately. It usually happens in the evening, after dinner but before 11pm since he’s figured out Eddie’s routine embarrassingly quickly. Besides, the evening changes him. Eddie senses the difference the moment he hears his voice.

He’s on the couch this time, comforter wrapped up around him like a cocoon, and Pygmalion lightly snoozing on his chest. When he answers and hears Richie’s voice on the line, something in him settles. Then immediately becomes barbed with irritation for settling so quick. _Fuck this guy, seriously. Who does he think he is, coming back into his life and making him feel so familiar and normal?_

But: “No,” he says, the way he always does, “I’m not busy.”

“Stan out?” Richie asks, though he knows the answer. Eddie doesn’t flatter himself in thinking his _routine_ is the only reason Richie calls him at night. He also knows that Stan tends to have drag gigs in the evenings and, despite the verbal tennis he often shares with him, he apparently did take Stan’s slight annoyance at his inability to use his own phone to heart. So he just does it when Stan’s not there to complain at Eddie about it. It’s a system.

This is nothing more than a well-rehearsed play where Richie and Eddie are the only actors, so much so that Eddie knows his lines off by heart – more or less. “Yeah, he’s downtown someplace. Could win money this time. Said he might need it; he’s ninety nine percent sure he saw someone from work the other night.”

“You mean his accountancy firm _doesn’t_ encourage the hard-working talents of their resident drag queen?”

“Please. He’s a drag countess if anything.”

“Who is he going as this time?”

“Lauren Bacall, I think.”

“Bacall, nice. Classic.” Richie pauses, like he’s snatching for more small talk before it’s too late. “How’s, uh, how’s apartment hunting going?”

“Not too bad, got a couple viewings lined up. S’harder because I need a place that takes dogs.” Absently, he scratches a spot behind Pygmalion’s ear and the dog responds with a pleased grumble. “Since no one’s actually met him, they can be tricked into thinking Pygmalion is actually a dog.”

“He _is_ a dog!” Richie defends.

“He belongs in a sewer.”

“Noooo. You two need couple’s therapy.”

“You kidding? I’m not paying for that shit when I get my counselling from you for free.” Eddie frowns slightly. “That… sounded wrong, I didn’t mean it like-”

“It’s cool man, I know what you meant,” Richie reassures, and Eddie believes him. Just like that.

“Anyway,” Eddie says, “I know I’m fucked up.”

“So you and Pig are destined for each other.”

Eddie smiles into the phone, though he’ll be damned if he’ll let on to Richie he’s doing anything other than scowling. “Quit stalling and tell me what’s up, dick.”

“The name is Richard.”

Eddie stays quiet. He hopes it comes across as the unimpressed silence he’s trying to force through the phone cord. Richie clears his throat after a few seconds and Eddie decides to get comfortable, flicking Stan’s phone cord to the side so it’s not lying in wait to strangle him.

“aveHave you – uh – have you been sleeping?”

Eddie blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. “Uh?”

“Because I’ve not been sleeping. Not when I should be.”

He frowns. Richie definitely looked a little more ragged the last time he saw him. But, then again, he always looks tired now; it’s like his default setting. Shit, how long has he been like this? “I’ve been sleeping okay,” he says. He pauses. “Well, as okay as I can since I found out my new bed is a couch my friend has definitely had sex on.”

“Filth,” Richie snorts. “How do you know?”

“Oh, he told me. In great detail.”

“Let me guess: another drag queen?”

“A Whitney Houston impersonator.”

“Ooh.” Richie’s mood falters, like it remembers he was talking about something else. Eddie’s glad he can be a distraction, if only for a few seconds. “Maybe it’s the bed,” Richie says then, the words heavy with thought.

“Hm?”

“I… I really miss Connor, man.” Richie’s sigh is like the wind’s been punched out of him. “So maybe it’s the bed. I’m used to sharing, now it’s just… me.”

Eddie sits up, propping himself against the pillows and hauling the still snoozing Pygmalion up. Richie isn’t crying – Eddie hasn’t seen him cry yet, no matter how close he’s got to it – but the quiet, dead way the words fall out of his mouth tell Eddie more than he’s comfortable knowing. “Oh, sure, like I’ll pity the guy with the fuckin’ California King whilst I’m here on the sex couch,” he jokes, but the half-hearted chuckle down the line isn’t enough.

Richie goes quiet, and Eddie wants to fucking destroy something.

God, he wishes he could hunt down the man who’s made Richie Tozier – the Richie Tozier who lives to piss him off – like this. He’d force-feed him his own fucking fingers. Then he realises Connor Bowers could be built like a brick-shit house, and maybe he should tone it the fuck down.

He tries again. “Get a new bed, man. Something yours. Could fix it.”

“Could do.” Richie lets out a humourless laugh. “I’m still not sleeping on his side of the bed. Ain’t that nutty?”

Eddie thinks about that. If he was still at his place, with Myra gone he’s pretty sure he’d spread out on that bed like a kid making snow angels, all night in white sheets that wouldn’t be snatched away from him. But instead he says, “No,” because maybe Richie makes more sense as a human being. “It’s not nutty. But I vote new mattress, at least.”

“Thanks for the support, Bette Davis.” Richie’s not making any quips, so he isn’t done yet. “I can’t afford it this month, but maybe the next one.” He sighs. “I’m not well.”

Eddie tries to stop the old feelings from surging back. He gets it from his mom, the knee-jerk reaction whenever anyone around him coughs or clutches their head. His mom wants to smother, wants to wrap the sufferer in paranoia and fear and keep them away from whatever dares to plague them. Eddie’s tried to temper his own, drummed-into-him reaction, shaping it into something less toxic and more of a tonic. He’s not quite got it, though, since the reaction that’s now ricocheting around his chest is _keep him away keep him still, sweat The Bad right out._ Ah, The Bad. That’s something he can’t afford to unpack right now. It’s a classic Sonia Kaspbrak staple.

He swallows down the panic like it’s a particularly thick spoonful of medicine and says, “You’ll be fine, Richie.”

The phone gives a non-committal grunt. “Any more calls from Myra?”

It’s Eddie’s turn to sigh. “She’s either given up or she’s racked up her phone bill too high calling everyone who’s ever spoken to me.”

“Do you miss her?” Richie’s voice is small and vulnerable, like he’s hopeful for a certain kind of answer.

But Eddie can’t give it to him. “I don’t,” he replies honestly. “I really don’t.”

He doesn’t let himself think of Myra often – he’s worried that thinking too long will somehow trick him into going back – but when he does, he thinks of her hands. The delicate way they peeled an orange, piercing the skin with a thumbnail and then ripping it all back, bit by bit. How the fingers spread out like the arms of a starfish as the mint green polish she got for her birthday dried. The way they wrung together, how they gripped, how they clamoured at him in wild demands to know where he’d been. How they would swipe fiercely at her eyes to collect tears that weren’t there. His brow furrows. “I think I miss the idea of her.”

Richie snorts. “As an abstract concept?”

“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.” He doesn’t want Myra back. No way. But…someone? Maybe. He’s open to the idea, even if it’s making his skin crawl now. He swaps the phone to his other ear and huffs. “There’s moments, but then I remember how we were at each other’s throats and the talk we had before I left and I just know I made the right decision.”

“God, that’s great,” Richie sighs wistfully. Eddie frowns, almost tells him not to go fucking _yearning_ after his own fucked up relationship, but he stops himself. He reminds himself that he was the one who walked away. Richie is the one left behind.

He wants to say something soft and reassuring, but before he can think of anything Richie cries out, “Oh oh oh, Top Gun on TV, Top Gun on TV!”

Eddie smiles, the sensitive part of their talk clearly over for a little while. “You got the TV on when we’re talking? Really?”

“I need a palate cleanser from the super-hot ex talk.”

Eddie considers this. Eh. Touché. “Channel?” He fishes for the remote in his sea of comforter and blankets, dislodging a grumbling Pygmalion. Richie tells him, and Eddie is rewarded by a scream of engines and pilot manoeuvres.

He settles in, listens to Richie ramble on about the cinematography (something he’s learnt from his weeks with Richie: he’s an irritatingly massive film nerd) and waits. He’s seen this film enough to know what’s coming next. And sure enough, it’s the locker room scene. The majority of the cast are still in uniform, but there are some stripped down to nothing but towels around their waists.

“Ahh, the money shots,” Richie croons.

“Pervert.”

“Hey, I call ‘em as I see ‘em, Eds.”

“Not my name.”

They watch on in quiet; Iceman squares off with Maverick about flying below the hard deck, Maverick gets up in his face, and Iceman… well…

Eddie’s stomach tightens and twists at Val Kilmer miming a bite in Tom fucking Cruise’s direction. It’s a pleasant kind of twist. “I can’t believe you thought that wasn’t gay, man,” Richie remarks.

Eddie flushes hot. “I never said that,” he denies. He knows it’s a lie, and he also knows that Richie will not drop it.

“Yes you did,” he, predictably, picks up. “We argued about it in the car, remember?”

“We argued about lots of stuff,” Eddie replies, trying to focus on the film. Maverick and Goose are being shouted at by the instructors. He misses Iceman. Although Goose… he has a soft spot for Goose. He shakes himself. “I never would’ve said that, this movie is gay as fuck.”

“Alright.” Jesus, Eddie can _hear_ the shrug in Richie’s voice, knows by how light it is that he can see through the bullshit but isn’t fighting it for once.

Eddie frowns. Richie doesn’t want to argue right now, which is an… interesting development, but he can roll with it. He doesn’t know Richie _that_ well after all, so who the fuck is he to say what’s a habit of Richie’s and what isn’t?

So he lets Richie narrate over the movie, doing eerily accurate impressions of not just Maverick, but every character who appears on the screen (“how many times have you seen this, dude?” “too many times, this was prime spank bank material in my teens” “fuck off we were 21 when this came out” “says you”). He turns it into some unrequited gay epic between Maverick and Goose (“Really? I thought Iceman was the one” “yes but Maverick and Goose got that bond.” “But Goose dies, you’re gonna bury the gay?” “It’s how the System keeps us in check, Spaghetti, just keeping to the script”) and then turns it into Maverick getting over Goose’s death with Iceman.

At first Eddie refuses to laugh, since he doesn’t want to give the fucker the satisfaction, but by the end he’s got cramp from how tight he’s been curled over, wheezing and spluttering at Richie’s pitch perfect rendition of ‘Take My Breath Away’. No, that song doesn’t happen at the end, and yes Richie’s ad-libbing the whole thing because he doesn’t know any lyrics except ‘Take My Breath Away’, but it’s dumb and it’s simple and it has Eddie in stitches like the loser he is.

As the movie ends, Richie snaps out of the voices and asks, “Hey, you busy next Saturday? It’s a weekend day remember, so you can’t say ‘work’ and expect me to believe that shit.”

Eddie snorts. “I think I got an apartment viewing scheduled, maybe two if the other guy gets his head out his ass.”

Richie hums thoughtfully. “Coffee after, d’you think? To compare notes.”

“Notes?”

“You seem like a guy who needs a second opinion on stuff before you get it.”

Eddie sees the line wiggling in front of him, waiting for him to grab it. He huffs, and grabs. “Explain.”

Richie sounds pleased he’s asked. “Look, you seem to know exactly what you want, when you want it. But then you change your mind a lot, so you need to see if it’s _really_ something you want or if it’s just a passing ‘want’, y’know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eddie sniffs. He knows exactly what Richie’s talking about. He doesn’t have a favourite sandwich for this exact reason. “But coffee sounds good. I’ll need it after trying to be nice to realtors for an entire morning.”

“Great, you can sound off on me like you love doing so much.” Eddie thinks for a moment that Richie might be serious and he needs to tone it down (and then thinks _what the fuck?? Why should I tone anything down??)_ until Richie adopts a sly tone and adds, “And maybe you could bring a certain little demon with you?”

Eddie doesn’t think it’s an _excellent_ idea, considering the last time he introduced them, Pygmalion mistook Richie’s hand for a chew toy. “You really wanna win him over that badly?”

“Eddie,” Richie says, startlingly serious. “I really _really_ wanna win your dog over that badly.”

They make the plan and Eddie demands that Richie goes to bed before the line goes dead and he’s left alone. The dark squashes in around him in a way it never did before; when he was with Myra, he rarely had a moment to himself, so when he got it he craved it like a second shot of oxygen. Now he has multiple moments like these, it’s like he’s realised too much oxygen can kill a person. He starts to wonder if his own company really _is_ such a good thing.

But then he thinks of Richie, who is _actually_ alone, and feels like shit for… well, thinking about Richie as some sort of fucking victim. Cus fuck him, Richie doesn’t need pity: he needs a friend. And for reasons that escape Eddie, he’s the one Richie’s picked. Well. He’s gotta make sure Richie made the right choice.

* * *

“I think I got a tumour, man.”

“What?”

“One of those. I dunno. 24 hour tumours going around. I read about them in a medical journal.”

“I’m sorry, you read _medical journals_?”

They’re in the park near Stan’s place, since it was the easiest place to meet. Richie made sure he arrived wearing the most eye-wateringly geometric sweater, and is delighted to report that Eddie hasn’t stopped scowling at it with distaste since he got there. He’s not sure why he likes annoying Eddie so much, but it sure as hell beats feeling depressed for hours on end. Some pigtail-pulling can’t hurt; it’s eighty percent of his personality anyway and Eddie seems to get a kick out of it too. Weirdo.

Richie’s decided to keep the beard. He’s still feeling lazy about personal grooming, and the beard almost feels like armour. At least Patty’s friends managed to wrangle the mop he laughingly calls hair into shape. He runs a hand through it as he thinks, and Eddie smacks his hand away. Richie yelps – a little overdramatically – and peers down at him. “Hey!”

“Stop touching your hair, it’ll get greasy,” Eddie chides. “And it can lead to hair loss, you wanna be bald by the time you’re forty?”

“Read that in one of your medical journals, didja?” he shoots back, and Eddie flips him off with the hand not holding onto a dog leash. Pygmalion is scrambling for every spot an inch too far from his nose, and for a little dog he is pretty hefty. Richie’s already made the joke about putting a skateboard under Eddie’s feet and creating New York’s first Corgi Chariot, but he debates making it again. He’s kind of obsessed with Pygmalion the same way he’s obsessed with Eddie; Pig is small, brimming with chaotic energy, and might just bite him. Bit like Eddie. At least he’s got his rabies shots now. Maybe he’s evolving a deathwish in the midst of heartbreak. _Whew, now that’s a thought._

“You don’t have a tumour,” he says, raising a brow when Eddie whips around to stare wildly at him.

“How do you know!? You some kinda doctor now?” he demands.

Richie snorts. “Your body hurt when you got up in the morning, dude, it’s normal. Go see an actual doc if you’re worried.”

Eddie blows out a sigh. “Nah. My doctor knows I’m a hypochondriac. He’ll just say it’s nothing.”

Richie reaches out, silently asking for the leash. Too happily, Eddie hands it over and Richie is nearly yanked off his feet. Shit, this dog pulls like a horse. He takes the opportunity to glance at Eddie and marvel at how the guy wears a shirt and suit pants to literally everything – even on a _weekend_. The guy went to see some apartments, not to lead a Synergy workshop. He’s not wearing a tie, at least, which might mean this is Eddie’s idea of casual.

_Jesus,_ Richie realises, _Eddie is fucking classy._

“I say, my good fellow,” Richie drawls, adopting a British voice so dripping with money it apparently gives Eddie whiplash for how quick his neck twists to look at him, “One ought to take a sniff of the old opium for your troubles, wot.”

Eddie lets out a laugh he immediately wants to strangle – Richie can tell by the hilariously betrayed look on his face – and elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up. Asshole. I’ll just go to the pharmacy.”

“Nay, I shall not, for I have decided to converse in this manner for the remainder of the day,” he announces, flinging out an arm dramatically. “My dear Eduardo, shall you partake in the practice of leeches for your malady?”

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie deadpans, but he’s smiling.

“Oh, you knave!” Richie sighs heavily, “You wound me so with your words of poison!”

Eddie mimes pushing him into a nearby puddle, but for all his bravado doesn’t actually do it. Maybe Richie’s growing on him – a bit like a tumour.

They walk on a little further, passing couples and families and the occasional commuter. Pig gets a couple of soft looks and cooing from some teenage girls Eddie seems to think he definitely doesn’t deserve, since he mutters savagely, “Yeah, yeah, lap it up you eldritch horror,” which makes Richie laugh.

He feels a little bit lighter. Connor leaving brought on a grey mist that clouded everything in a little more sadness, muffled the world around him so the only thing sharp and in focus was his own pain and loneliness. But the mist is starting to clear, bit by bit. Friends help. Going out helps. Eddie helps - even if Richie feels he’s in low-key danger of getting his ass kicked on the regular.

They reach the centre of the park with a fountain in its middle. Eddie lets Pygmalion off so he can go terrorise some squirrels, and Richie’s attention is suddenly caught by a small bundle of cards and flags pinned to one side of the fountain. The rainbow flag makes his stomach swoop. A memorial? He’s seen plenty of them scattered around the city like place markers, reminding everyone that _they exist,_ they fight and they die just like everyone else. It’s the one thing the media agrees they’re very good at right now, he thinks with a twist to his stomach.

He crouches down to take a look and sees a familiar face peeking up at him from the single photograph. He lets out a low whistle. “Oh, Fernando. Shit man, it finally caught up with you huh?”

He hasn’t seen Fernando in weeks. After he handed the Life Café over to his nephew, he was out and about less, but he always used to pop into The Turtle Shell every few days to help with the books – he was always good at the books – but Patty had been asking about him lately as he hadn’t showed. Richie knows he was in a bad way the last time he saw him, but he had no idea it was ‘memorial in the park’ bad.

The photo is of Fernando as a younger man, a time when Richie never knew him, all wrinkle-free and sporting an impressive moustache. Richie’s only ever seen him older, much older, and seen the outline of his skull through sallow skin far too much for it to be comfortable.

He senses someone behind him but doesn’t move, crouched before the memorial like it’s some sort of shrine. He knows it’s Eddie, logically it can’t be anyone else, but for once he doesn’t want him there. He doesn’t need to see Richie collapse in on himself like a tin can on the street, doesn’t need to see what he’s tried so hard to keep in check and behind his own door for the past month and a half of knowing him.

To Richie’s surprise, Eddie says nothing. Eddie seems the type to fill a silence if he can – he does kinda like the sound of his own voice – but he just stands there. Looking. Thinking. Richie, well… he appreciates it. The quiet. It’s what Fernando deserves.

He was the first truly friendly face Richie met in New York. He taught Richie Spanish curse words, then the whole damn language just for the hell of it. He made those stellar eggs with all the herbs and spices, sampled first after a bad break-up and last just a month or so ago. Shit, man. Shit.

Obvious fucking statement, but AIDS fucking sucks. It already took Fernando’s partner from him years ago, back when Richie was actively campaigning. There’s something poetic in it, but not a nice kind of poem; it’s the kind that rips out your guts and makes you look at them as you slowly bleed out.

But Richie’s seen it before. Heard it all, too. Fernando’s just another statistic. After a while, being punched in the same place makes that skin tough – this is just another punch in the same toughened spot, and he has plenty of those.

He reaches out and rights a small bouquet of wildflowers that have fallen over, and straightens up. Okay. That’s enough. Time to file this away into the closet of ‘Never Think About This In Public Ever’ he keeps in his mind. See, talking about dead people for Richie is a bit like burying a body in a house. Put it under the floorboards, in the walls, fill the gaps and it’s done: outta sight outta mind as they say! No, I don’t smell anything, nothing here officer!

He plasters a smile onto his face and turns to Eddie. “Not the best photo. This guy was at Stonewall and I have seen, with my own two eyes, a picture of him throwing a wine bottle at a cop and stealing his hat. That should be up here.”

Eddie’s frowning at him, his expression oddly soft. It sends a spark of panic through Richie’s body. Shit, shit no, you’re not supposed to look that way, I made a joke it’s funny _c’mon…_

“Rich, I remember this guy,” he says, without a single bite to it. “He meant a lot to you, right?”

Richie almost _screams_.

Instead he shuts up, bouncing nervously on his heels. He wonders where Pig is, and sincerely hopes he’s doing something awful enough to stop Eddie looking like he wants to climb inside him and see how he works. And not in a sexy way, either. Eddie reaches out to him, still fixing him with those big fucking eyes, and he starts to say words that are part of Richie’s worst nightmares.

“Rich, are you-”

Okay, Richie needs to stop this. Like, immediately. He does what feels safe; he shoves his hands in his pockets, darts out of Eddie’s reach and shouts, “Oh, I do declare! The young sir wishes to manhandle me!”

It works. Eddie’s face goes perfectly blank. “What the hell, no I don’t.”

“Oh, the young sir is such a tease!” Richie squalls, overdoing it in his panic and beginning to turn heads now. “Begone with you, for I have no earthly treasures ye may desire.”

Shit, he’s gone medieval. Fuck.

Anyway, the only way to describe the look Eddie shoots him is flat. “Okay, I get it. Quit it, asshole, I know deflecting when I see it.”

Richie switches back to his usual voice to remark, “Friends let their other friends deflect without questioning them.”

“Oh, is that how is works?”

“Uh huh, it’s the rules.”

“Wow, may I remind you that you are 31 years old?”

“31 and three quarters, _Edward_.”

Eddie actively blanches at the name, but Richie won’t say shit unless he does. It’s hard to remember this is still a fledgeling sort of friendship, the kind that hasn’t quite left the nest yet. It just feels so normal that Richie treats it like one he’s had for years, one with wings. It feels nice, to be comfortable like this, even if he does sometimes overstep the mark. But hey, Eddie does too: it’s just teething problems, that’s all. And maybe Eddie’s just like this with everyone. He might not know how much Richie is having to check himself.

Eddie snaps out of it, frowning, and calls for Pig. Richie doesn’t let himself wonder – he hasn’t cleared that friendship barrier quite yet – and instead watches Eddie’s corgi running around in circles after the falling leaves, completely ignoring his owner’s shouts. Clearly squirrels were too much like hard work, and leaves are a more docile sort of prey.

“You make me a little insane,” Eddie confides, and Richie thinks he’s talking about the dog until he turns and sees Eddie’s eyes locked on him in a scowl.

Oh-kay, so not about the dog.

Richie chuckles nervously at how severe that glare is, and digs his hands further into his pockets. “You gonna kick my ass about it, Bette Davis?” he says.

Eddie’s scowl deepens, to Richie’s alarm, and then he mutters, “Haven’t decided yet,” which makes Richie want to hoot with laughter. So he does.

“Oooh, am I on thin ice?” he croons.

Eddie nods, but there’s a catch in the scowl that betrays a hint of amusement. “The thinnest fucking ice.”

Richie grins. “I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”

“Then stop fucking smiling about it.”

“Oh this? This is a fear smile, Eds.”

Eddie scoffs; Eddie laughs; Eddie lets it drop. Richie appreciates it, even if the only way he shows it is a slump to his shoulders and a looser jaw.

After a team effort to capture Pygmalion and get him back on his leash, they go for coffee. Pig falls asleep under the table and Richie stops gazing dewy-eyed at him for long enough to order for them both. Eddie asks him to order whatever he wants for him, which is quite the trust exercise. Richie goes easy on him and orders a mocha. And some kind of caramel-injected cake monstrosity for good measure. Eddie looks sceptical, but he takes a tentative sip and melts. “Shit, that’s good,” he states loudly, causing the couple on the table beside them to shoot him a scandalised look.

“That’ll be the chocolate,” Richie laughs. God, this guy.

They discuss the apartments. Eddie pulls out the pictures he has from what’s clearly a shoddy copy job. He intentionally covers the prices, but there’s no need; Richie can _see_ they’re expensive. He looks them all over and stabs a finger onto the last one Eddie shows him. “There’s your winner, right there.”

Eddie’s eyebrows come up. “Oh? That one?”

Richie nods. It’s light and airy, a factory refurb job with a nice living area and a large bedroom (“Plenty of space for those medical journals” “shut up”) and well… okay, so it’s closer to Richie’s neck of the woods than the other apartments, so sue him. He likes having his friends near. He likes to be close enough to get to them if they need him.

Eddie spins the paper around and smiles with recognition. “Oh. That one.”

“Yeah man, it’s nice.”

“It’s my favourite too,” he admits.

Richie peers closer to look it over. “You gonna make an offer?”

“Already have,” Eddie responds, his smile sly like he’s gone and done something without permission. “Gonna find out if it’s accepted tomorrow.” It’s almost…vulnerable, the way he says that, as though he’s waiting for Richie to give him some kind of lecture on it all.

Richie slaps a hand on the table and whoops, causing Eddie to jump. “Al _right_ Spaghetti! Seizing that day, _carpin’_ that _diem_!”

Eddie scoffs, though his smile is pleased and a little nervous. “What, I thought I needed your approval?”

“Nah man, fuck my approval, my opinion sucks, this is great!” Richie beams at him. “You chose this yourself!”

“Yeah…” Eddie’s smile becomes warmer. “Yeah, I did…”

“Hope you get it. No more sex couch.”

“Right.” Eddie looks back down at it almost fondly. “And it’s a great apartment.”

That last bit has a question to it (so much for not needing approval) that has Richie nodding violently. “Yeah, it’s amazing!”

Eddie traces the edge of the copy with a thumb. “Funny. Myra would hate it. Mom, too. It’s… not in the suburbs, it’s close to the noise and the bustle of the city. It’s close to Alphabet City.”

Richie wonders if there’s another reason they’d hate it too (and Eddie knows he lives near Alphabet City what the fuck) but he just gives a loose shrug. “That settles it, then. You gotta have it, dude.”

Eddie bites his lip around the smile. “Yeah…”

Richie nudges the caramel cholesterol nightmare his way. “C’mon. You deserve cake for the momentous occasion.”

Eddie eyes it like he’s waiting for it to come to life and leap down his throat. “Uh, I dunno,” he says.

Richie puts down his cup. “Don’t worry, I got another one on the way.”

“That’s not it, I – hm. How to say this. Um.” Eddie frowns, looking vulnerable and exposed again. “Don’t laugh,” he orders.

Richie blinks. “Can’t promise that, Eds. What next comes out your mouth might be comedy gold.”

Eddie apparently decides to run the risk, though, since he picks up a fork and, glaring down at the cake, says, “I haven’t had anything like this for, uh, years.” His eyes flick to Richie’s. “And don’t you dare give me shit for it or I’ll nail your tongue to this table.”

Richie stares at him. “Real vivid picture you painted there, dude, but that ain’t the sorta comedy I go for. You keep yourself in shape, why the hell would I joke about you only eating cake on suitable holidays?”

Somehow Eddie looks more defensive at this. He continues to glare a hole in the cake as he mutters, “Mom never liked me eating sugar. And Myra was convinced I’d get diabetes. So.” He falters. “Uh. Yeah.”

Oh. _Now_ it makes sense. _That’s – that’s just fucking sad_ , Richie thinks as he scoots forward in his seat. He nods though, like he gets it, and drags the plate back. “Gotcha. This is too high level for you, you need the tutorial first. Hold up.”

He calls over a waiter and soon enough Eddie is presented with a small vanilla cupcake. He picks it up cautiously, but after a small nibble his eyes practically roll into the back of his head and Richie knows, with a grin, that he’s managed to tempt Eddie Kaspbrak to the dark side. He also now has two heart attack cakes to contend with, so it’s a win all around.

“Did, uh… did Myra have rules for other stuff?” he asks lightly, an attempt to sound casual that ultimately fails.

Eddie’s eyes dart to him mid-bite. They squint. “Yeah, obviously,” he says, once he’s waited the appropriate amount of time after chewing. “We had plenty.”

_Oh, lord, this is what Richie’s afraid of._ “Example?” he wheedles, still trying to keep it light.

“Example?” Eddie echoes. He seems to know what he’s doing, but he answers anyway. “Okay, well uh… she can’t work with music in the background, so no music in the house when she was developing film or doing admin. When we did have anything on it was always the radio. We don’t have the same taste in music. She likes the chart stuff.”

Richie purses his lips. “Fascinating,” he mutters. “Anything else?”

Eddie stares at him for a while. “Why are you being weird about this?”

Richie takes a sip of his coffee. “Because it’s fucking weird, Eduardo,” he answers, honestly.

Eddie flushes. “Oh c’mon, every relationship has compromises.”

“That’s not a compromise, that’s a prison charter.”

“Oh fuck off, so you’re saying you _never_ had any rules with Connor?”

The name still smarts, still punctures something deep in Richie’s chest he likes to forget exists. But he’s gotten really good at hiding that shit, so he just offers a brief, if not winded, smile. “We pretty much only had the ‘don’t fuck around with anyone else’ rule, and apparently even that was too vague.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to give him hell for making fun of it, like he knows he’s nowhere near ready to be saying that sort of stuff and not mean it, but instead he lets out an exasperated huff and folds his arms. “Well. All relationships are different.”

“Oh, yeah. I lived with a cheater, you lived with a fascist dictator masquerading as your mom.”

He avoids the sugar packets Eddie throws at him by ducking down under the table to sneak Pig some caramel frosting. With a dubious expression eerily similar to his owner, Pig waddles closer and licks the frosting off his finger. His eyes bug out and his stump of a tail starts to wag the moment he tastes the sugar. Richie beams. Ah, cake: the perfect fodder for friendship. “Did you have the list pinned to the fridge?” he asks, brave since he has the table to shield him from Eddie’s wrath.

When he resurfaces, wiping his hands on the napkins, Eddie’s arms are still folded but he doesn’t look like he’s promising murder. Instead he looks thoughtful. “I think it was on the corkboard in the hall, actually.”

“Oh my god.” Richie sniggers into his coffee and _there it is,_ there’s the murder promise look he was waiting for. “Please tell me you have a copy.”

“No, I do _not_ have a copy, Jesus Christ.” Eddie hesitates. “But there was always one I never liked.”

“Music and cake bans weren’t the worst ones?” Richie leans in close. “Oh, Eds, enlighten me.”

Eddie sighs. Picks up the cupcake. Puts it down again. “Well, we only went to go see movies that won awards. ‘Cus Myra thought there’s no point watching any others.”

Richie actually _gawps_ at him. “Dude, the award movies aren’t always good movies! You need to see some terrible ones, some real stinkers. Maybe some with ketchup blood and gore!” He slams his hands down on the table in distress. “Okay, we gotta go to the movies together. How ‘bout tonight? I bet there’s something awful on.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, it’s not like I’m some sort of disadvantaged child who never watched bad movies. I watched Top Gun.”

“Top Gun is a fantastic film and got an Academy Award for Best Original Song so shut the fuck up.” Richie grins. “Also I very much mean it, would you like to go to the movies with me? Tonight?”

Eddie blinks, realisation dawning on his face that yes, Richie is very much serious and yes, he would like the pleasure of his company in a movie theatre, and Richie’s hit by the thought, stark and sudden, that maybe Eddie isn’t used to people wanting his company like this. And that’s… well, that’s a mistake on everyone else’s part, because Eddie is a fucking riot. “Oh.” He looks conflicted. “Uh…”

“What’s the matter?” Richie wiggles his eyebrows. “Got a hot date or something?”

Eddie bites on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. For a second, Richie sees him as the uncertain, defensive little 21 year old he met so many years ago in the front seat of a 1971 Cricket. “Uh. Um. Well. Yeah?”

Richie’s whole train of thought screeches to a halt. “Yeah?” he parrots back.

Unfortunately, at the exact same time Richie is close to blacking out a waiter gets a bit too close with a carrot cake, Pygmalion launches himself at his ankles, and chaos breaks out.

* * *

It takes a grand total of fifteen minutes for Eddie to resolve the situation, which is something of a record. He’s had a lot of practice with it, though, and not just with his demonic corgi. Running damage control is sort of what he does, and was something of a staple when it came to his relationship with Myra; at least Pygmalion doesn’t scream that he’s making a scene and makes him sleep on the couch when they get home.

The manager being a dog lover certainly helps as he coos and laughs over Pygmalion, face stuck into the dropped cake and only coming up for air. Eddie pays for the cake, lets some photographer snap a picture of his dog covered in cream cheese frosting and smugness, and only then does he turn back to Richie. His lack of commentary throughout the whole thing is making Eddie nervous, which obviously comes out as: “Pass me some tissue to clean him up, then! Fuck.”

Richie dutifully hands him a wad of them without a word and watches as Eddie hauls Pygmalion onto his lap. Pygmalion growls at the treatment, but Eddie puts a finger up to him in warning. “Don’t even _go_ there you little asshole.” Shit, there’s frosting _everywhere_ , is cream cheese lethal to dogs? Does he need his stomach pumped?

Eddie is almost ready to ask for a phonebook so he can call a vet when Richie finally speaks. “So, uh, you really do have a date?”

An almost chemical chill rips through him. Shit, he did say that, didn’t he? It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly true either. Stan and his blue FiloFax had been trying to set him up with someone for weeks, but Eddie was keeping him at bay until, in a moment of madness, Stan suggested someone from his accounting firm – a _male_ someone. And, well, Eddie can’t help the thrill he gets at the idea of being with someone he might actually be attracted to. So sue him, he said he’d think about it and now he has and he’s going to do it.

Still wrestling with Pygmalion, he hisses, “ _That’s_ what you choose to focus on right now?”

All trace of humour is gone from Richie’s face, and Eddie decides that he misses it. “It’s pretty big news, Eds.”

Eddie frowns, still trying to reach his dog’s mouth without the tissue getting eaten. “Don’t sound so shocked, it was gonna happen eventually. And it’s not like I’m getting married or anything, it’s just some guy Stan knows.”

The second the words are out of his mouth Eddie realises his mistake. He immediately wants to shove the words back in his mouth, crunch them in his teeth and swallow them down, never to see the light of day again. He’s pretty sure he hears something break – or maybe that’s just him. Richie’s eyes are bugging now, and he’s actually gaping. Eddie wants more than anything to reach over and smack the bottom of his jaw so that mouth shuts like a roller blind, but he resists the temptation.

_Lying,_ his inner voice wails to itself, _why didn’t you just fucking **lie**?_

“O-okay, no,” he stammers, trying to focus on the wriggling Pygmalion on his lap and not the man in front of him, “let’s, uh, let’s pretend I didn’t fucking say that.”

Richie, mercifully, does shut his mouth – but only for a moment before he asks, “Do you mean a guy as in a man or is ‘guy’ what you call everyone?”

Eddie swallows painfully. Richie is giving him an out, he knows he is. And he could lie – that is something he can definitely do. But instead, he has a flash of bravery; he looks Richie right in the eye and says, “I’m pretty sure he’s a man, Rich.”

“Oh.” Richie’s brows go up so high they disappear up into his hair. “Well. Ain’t this an ol’ turn up for the books.”

Eddie resists the urge to hide his face behind his dog’s bulk. “I, uh, didn’t mention that huh?”

“Seeing as I called you a straight guy and you didn’t even flinch I’m sure you can understand my surprise,” Richie comments. He still sounds a little stunned, which Eddie doesn’t appreciate.

He does feel like a piece of shit for not telling him though. So he sighs and says, “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I just thought…” He pauses, wondering if bringing up the Classic Problem isn’t something totally fucking insane to do. He decides to be half-honest. “I didn’t wanna make shit weird.”

“Weird?” Richie frowns. “Why would it be weird? It’s weirder you didn’t tell me you were… what, gay? Bi?”

“I don’t know what the fuck I am, and it’s because…” Eddie chews on his lip, uncertainty stealing through him. “Because I’d just met you again and I wanted to be your friend, fuck knows why. I don’t want you to think I just wanted to stick to you because you’re the only other gay guy I know outside of Stan and Bill.”

“Oh.” Richie brightens. “That’s not weird, man, us queens gotta flock together. Safety in numbers, y’know?”

Eddie sighs. “So, you don’t mind?”

“Obviously not.”

“About the date?”

“Nope. It’s great that you have a date.”

“It’s just… we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately and-”

Realisation dawns on Richie’s face. “Oh, no no no it’s fine! Honest!” He waves his hands out like he’s trying to stop Eddie bolting into traffic. “It’s not weird, and I still wanna hang out with you. Now I know I can talk about dudes without you freaking out like most straight men.”

Eddie raises a brow. “You sure?”

Richie moulds his expression into something close to serious. “Yes, Eds, I’m sure. I don’t mind that you’re going on a date with a man. What kind of self-respecting homosexual-”

“You should get out there too,” Eddie says in a rush, and is almost surprised he’s said it.

Thankfully, Richie snorts good-naturedly and drawls, “Alas, my good fellow, I am not ready for such matters of the heart,” in his obnoxious British voice.

Eddie puts Pygmalion back on the ground with a grunt of effort and turns back to Richie. “C’mon man, it’s time.”

“Eddie, please,” Richie wheedles, back to his normal voice. “I’m no good. For, like… anyone. Not right now.”

Eddie scoffs, but then realises Richie’s serious. Oh. Richie really doesn’t think he’s the sort of person that could make someone like Eddie feel just a little more human? He doesn’t get how he makes Eddie look forward to the hours after work now, since he knows he has either Stan to hang out with or Richie’s voice on the phone. Huh. The fuck?

In a moment of madness, Eddie scoops a bit of vanilla frosting off his cupcake and, with a scowl, smears it on Richie’s nose. It helps break the sudden tension surrounding them as Richie sputters out a laugh and aims some caramel cake at him in revenge.

“You’ll make someone happy, Richie,” Eddie says later, when they’ve cleared the café out of tissue and start heading back to Stan’s. “You just gotta believe you will. Forget whatever the fuck that asshole you used to date said.”

Richie blinks down at him, obviously a little wrong-footed by the praise. Sure, they’d changed the subject since, but it’s been weighing heavy on Eddie’s mind and he needs to say this shit before he’s back at Stan’s and it’s too late. “Uh. Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he answers.

Eddie somehow feels more annoyed by this. Because he knows Richie _isn’t_ convinced. And yeah, he needs a vote of fucking confidence every now and again. He has zero confidence for someone so big and loud and that, in Eddie’s opinion, is a very cruel fate that’s been dealt Richie’s way. He wonders what happened to that blue-haired motherfucker who had so much energy and reckless bravery he practically vibrated with it – and then thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe that particular friendship level hasn’t been unlocked yet.

The frustration clearly shows on his face, as Richie claps a hand on his shoulder and grins. “Keep lookin’ that way and it’ll stay when the wind changes, Bette Davis.”

He shrugs him off. “Ugh. Shut up. Why do I want to be friends with you.”

“Something in the water,” Richie guesses.

He then stops in his tracks and actually takes a step back. Eddie stops too. Richie strokes his beard, a thoughtful “hmm”, escaping him as he looks Eddie up and down. Eddie folds his arms and waits, discomfort prickling through him at Richie’s eyes so explicitly _on him._ Pygmalion snuffles around the grass at his feet, but he doesn’t move. Richie taps a finger against his lips and says, “You wearing that?”

Eddie looks down at himself, momentarily forgetting what he’s in. “Uh…” Seeing as this date was only confirmed half an hour ago, he hasn’t really thought about it. “Maybe?”

Richie hums again. “Got anything that isn’t a suit?”

“Suits are smart,” he defends.

“You’re going on a date, not a job interview or literally anything else you do. Wear a blazer at least, dude, it won’t kill you.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “Reckon it’d suit you. Gotta get a good colour, though.”

Eddie isn’t really sure what to do with that information, so he compensates by handing Pygmalion’s leash to Richie, red-faced and scowling, and watching the guy’s eyes light up like he’s won a carnival prize. It’s not a ‘thanks’, but he figures it’s close enough.

* * *

“Well, it wasn’t the worst date I’ve been on.”

“Oh?”

“No. Think it qualifies as the most excruciatingly awkward experience of my life and maybe I should relocate to Canada.”

“Oh.”

Richie invited himself around to Eddie’s new apartment pretty much as soon as Eddie had enough furniture unpacked for guests. He came on the pretence of working, since Eddie reluctantly admitted he didn’t have a hope in hell of hauling some of the boxes up the stairs to his door, but he was really there to snoop. He never went to Stan’s place because even though the guy’s nice he doesn’t know him, and it would be weird to go to some dude’s apartment to hang out with someone who doesn’t live there either. But this? This is Eddie’s space. Anything goes – well, almost anything.

He’s putting away the kitchen utensils in easy to reach places (he’s already dubbed them ‘Eddie to reach places’ which earned him a particularly sour look) when he offhandedly mentions The Date. He’s making a big deal of it, he knows he is, but once Eddie blurted it out in the café he can’t stop thinking about it for some reason.

That, and the fact that Eddie’s definitely not as straight as Richie previously thought.

He obviously called Patty as soon as he got home to freak out about it, and she obviously told him he’s a grown ass man and can deal with a Not-Straight Eddie the exact same way he dealt with Straight Eddie. And she’s right; nothing’s changed and Richie doesn’t suddenly want to a) drop to his knees in front of him or b) run a mile, so he deems that a sign of growth. Eddie’s still himself, and the world hasn’t ended. So he can totally do this. Fuck that childish Problem he mentioned when he was a dumbass college grad.

Still, he can’t help feeling his hetero safety net has been snatched out from under him mid-fall. He has to tread careful.

Anyway. The Date.

He moves to retrieve more stuff out of the box so helpfully labelled ‘Kitchen’ (they’re all labelled, and in neat black sharpie too) and sees Eddie rolling out a monochrome rug in the middle of his living room, kicking it in encouragement whenever it stops moving. Ah, to be a rug. His brows are pinched in concentration. It’s endearing.

Richie clears his throat. “It really that bad?” he asks.

Eddie’s grimace says more than any simple yes or no. “Stan said he would be happy to take shit slow, but the second we got to dinner he grabbed my knee like it was a joystick and leaned in so close I could smell his breath-mints. Dude was basically _slobbering_.”

“Hey, don’t you go blaming the poor guy. You’re one fine piece of real estate, Eds.” Richie throws a playful tongue click and a wink over his shoulder as he goes back to work, just because he knows how much Eddie hates it.

As predicted, Eddie’s heavy groan of irritation almost vibrates through the floorboards. “I’m really not, and even if I was that’s not the point.”

“Come on, guy’s only human.”

“Humans don’t make suggestive comments over udon noodles and then call you frigid when you say you’d rather not go back to their place for ‘a nightcap’ like they’ve come from the fucking forties,” Eddie spits, really getting into the story now. “I mean, what the fuck _Jack,_ I could fuck better people than you.”

Richie lets out a thoughtful hum.

“I can fuck!” Eddie shouts, clearly thinking Richie doesn’t believe him, and Richie nearly brains himself on the open cupboard door.

“Yes, yes, you can fuck, testify sister,” he says with a laugh, listing a stack of plates from their box and placing them carefully in one of the eye-level cupboards. “Sounds like a charmer. Guess you get the Chads of the world wherever you go.”

“This guy works in accounts, he is a nerd. Nerds can be assholes too.” There’s a pause, and Richie finds the silence odd. Eddie seems to as well, as he steps over the rug and makes a beeline for the record player in the corner. “Album finished. Any requests?”

Richie bought it for him as a housewarming present, since a house isn’t a home without music, in his humble opinion. It’s a well-loved little thing from the 80s he found in a junk shop, hidden in a plastic red suitcase like it was meant to be portable once upon a time. Most stuff is on cassette now, but Richie loves the earthy, deep sound a good vinyl can give. When Eddie looked sceptical, he argued that it’s the only real way to enjoy music. It’s… richer, somehow. More authentic.

Anyway, he brought over a couple of records for while they unpacked and made sure they were ones that ex-girlfriend of his would hate. As luck would have it, Richie’s eclectic taste is not altogether lost on Eddie.

“ _We Can’t Dance_ ,” he decides, sliding more crockery into place. How many plates and bowls can one guy have? “Genesis,” he adds a beat later, in case Eddie isn’t sure. They have a particular song on the album that makes a joke of TV preachers which definitely belongs in the ‘Myra-and-Mama-Kaspbrak-would-hate-this’ basecamp.

Eddie obliges. “What is your obsession with British bands?” he asks as the needle hits the record and immediately begins to play out the sound of a ticking clock.

“Queerer,” Richie replies, rummaging through the next box that is, frankly, an obscene amount of mugs. “Trust me, the high-brow sound of Culture Club and Wham! would be truly lost on us Yanks if they started over here.”

“That’s not true.” Eddie pauses. “And I wouldn’t say they were high-brow…”

“Blasphemy!” Richie shouts over the sound of drums. “George Michael is a god amongst men.”

“Is this George Michael?”

“Is this George Mi– oh no, Eds, I’m so sorry, so much to learn.” Richie shakes his head. “This, my friend, is Phil Collins. He has the voice of a steadily balding angel. And those drums, agh.” He clutches his chest. “Jesus he knows me, and he knows I’m right.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Pig chooses that moment to skitter into the kitchen, his little legs working overtime on the slippy linoleum tile. As Richie stoops down to fuss him he hears Eddie let out a heavy sigh. He peeks over the counter at him. “Wanna take a breather?”

“Yes.” Eddie grunts, flopping down onto the second-hand Goodwill couch that appeared the last time Richie came over. It’s surprisingly awful, and Richie adores it.

He abandons his kitchen quest and wanders over, Pig following behind. Eddie doesn’t look up, too busy chewing on his knuckles and getting lost in his own headspace. He does this a lot, Richie notices, staring into nothing with his eyes blank. Eddie’s mind is a strange and feral creature; Richie imagines it full of corporate desk computers, an efficient filing system and a bunch of tiny Eddies scampering around yelling about risk and stocks.

He pokes the side of his head as he slumps down into the well-worn cushions. “What’s cookin’ up top?” he asks.

Eddie twitches, but doesn’t shuffle away like he sometimes does. “Just. Maybe dating isn’t for me.”

“You kidding?” Richie raises a brow. “One bad date and you’re tapping out?”

“Maybe it’s too late,” Eddie muses. “I wasted time with Myra and now if I date a woman I’ll constantly be comparing the two of them, and if I date a man I’m out of practice and don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” He huffs and shuts his eyes, sinking further into the couch. “I’m going to buy three more dogs and become The Crazy Corgi Man of the Bronx.”

“For starters, loser, we’re in Manhattan. Second, your date was a cakewalk compared to the one I had to deal with last week.”

One of Eddie’s eyes cracks open at this. Then the other. Then he leans away from Richie to see him better, those eyes getting wider. “You got a date too?”

There’s a hint of disbelief in his tone that Richie doesn’t appreciate. He snorts. “Yeah, shock horror that dudes wanna bone me, right?”

“That’s not… I didn’t mean… you said…” Eddie splutters.

Richie takes pity on him. “Ssh, ssh, before you pull something. But… yeah, I got a date.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

Huh. Why indeed. Richie honestly does consider telling Eddie that he’d gone home that day with Eddie’s words bouncing around his head on pogo sticks, thought that he could be right about being ready, and called the number of some guy who slipped it to him on a beermat the last time he was out with Patty – and then realises that’s a fucking dumb idea and backtracks. “Come on, man, I don’t gotta tell you everything.”

“But you wanna tell me now?”

Richie shrugs. “Maybe I wanna tell you everything. Sue me.”

Eddie gives a little shit-eating grin Richie’s not seen before and shuffles away, arms folding against his chest. “Consider yourself sued.”

“Yowch.”

“So what happened?”

Oh yeah. You can’t just say shit like that and expect to get away with it. Richie threads his fingers together and leans forward, closer to the coffee table Eddie’s purposefully placed there. “So we go for dinner,” he begins. “Nice restaurant so he knows I mean business, wore my quietest shirt, made a couple jokes-”

“So you sold him a lie from the off?”

Richie stumbles in his retelling. “I-wha-hmm?”

“Aside from the jokes, that isn’t you.” Eddie leans forward too, his shoulders hunching over the same way Richie’s do. He mirrors him, down to the laced fingers. He’s also staring at him rather critically. “Don’t you want that? To be honest?”

Richie swallows painfully, because what is he supposed to say to that? That, no, he rather wouldn’t be himself, because look what happened when he did? When he’s himself he’s no one’s, and he’d quite like to be someone’s at some point in his miserable little life. “Hey,” he croaks, “this isn’t the worst part. It’s barely a part.”

“Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

Richie gathers himself and carries on. “So he doesn’t laugh at my jokes, not even a snigger, so I start getting nervous cus he’s hot, Eds, really hot, and how the fuck am I meant to keep up if I’m not funny to him? So we start the back and forths, as you do, and then I ask where he comes from and he says he’s from Madison County. And this just makes me think of Connor.”

Eddie blinks. “Connor comes from Madison?”

“No,” Richie sighs, “He’s from Claremont, but they’re both big cheese towns.”

Eddie just stares at him. “Cheese.”

“Yeah. Cheese.”

“Right.”

“So, uh,” Richie continues, “cut to me having a massive panic attack and I barf when I panic, so long story short we were asked to leave the restaurant and I spent a good half hour trying not to throw my guts up in an alley.”

Eddie seems a bit stunned that Richie volunteered so much information willingly; scratch that, he actually looks startled. Well, too late now buckaroo, you said you wanted friendship and this is what you get. Exit’s over there, make sure to tip your waitress. “Okay,” he says slowly, “guess you win.”

Richie smiles weakly. “Thanks. Always wanted to be ranked Best Loser.”

Eddie shoves him, but then flops his head onto Richie’s shoulder. “You know, Rich, this takes time. I was wrong, it’s gonna take a while until we’re okay with dating again.”

Richie sighs too. “Sure.”

There’s a pause. Then Eddie adds, “Might be even longer until we’re comfortable sleeping with someone new.”

Richie blinks. “Oh, I slept with him.”

Eddie moves so quick Richie almost falls into his lap. “You _slept_ with him? Even after he saw you dry fucking heave in the street?!”

Richie wrinkles his nose. “I mean, I brushed my teeth before we did anything…”

“But you slept with him?!”

“Like I said. You seem surprised people wanna bone me.”

Eddie takes a pillow and shoves it right in his face, and Richie squawks indignantly and dives for cover. Eddie doesn’t need to know that after, Richie put on a record and asked the guy to leave. He also doesn’t need to know how he felt exposed and a bit like a shellfish with its insides scooped out. He _definitely_ doesn’t need to know that he showered almost immediately and cried the whole time as his whole body ached for Connor, not some stranger, just Connor, just safety and security.

Nope. He doesn’t need to know any of that. That’s between Richie, God and Phil Collins’s excellent drum solos.

* * *

Richie begins to think he has a problem when the end of Summer trips and stumbles into one of the coolest Falls that New York has seen in years. Fall is Richie’s favourite season; the rich colours of the leaves and the fresh crunch to the air is something he always looks forward to, and it gives him the best excuse to burrow into as many woolly layers he can get his hands on. This surprises most people, as they know how much he loves his garish button ups and tank tops he’s too old to get away with wearing, but there are plenty of awful sweaters out there just waiting to be shown off.

He usually spends his Fall outside the city if he can, hand in hand with Connor as they pick the biggest pumpkin imaginable and Connor haggles with the unimpressed farmer to get it cheap. It’s so Richie can carve the most elaborate pattern to beat the Wholesome American Joneses’ jack o lantern next door. It’s an important part of the calendar, but for obvious reasons that’s not happening this year.

Well.

Not in the same way, at least.

Because he _does_ go pumpkin picking. He does pick a big pumpkin, though not the biggest since some snot-nosed kid got there first, and makes his best lantern yet. He uses the pulpy mess of pumpkin to make stews and pies, and presents them with a flourish at his table with a wide, satisfied grin. But all of these things he does with Eddie.

It’s not a problem; it’s the opposite of it actually, it’s fucking great. Eddie is nothing like Connor when it comes to these things. Eddie comes straight from the office when he overruns instead of cancelling the plan – as Eddie overruns in the office quite a lot, he’s often stood in farmer’s markets or pumpkin patches in Armani suits and Goodwill galoshes he half-heartedly complains about. He asks Richie to help him decorate his apartment door for Halloween so he can match the rest of his building and not look like the holiday scrooge, and Richie is only too happy to oblige. And, after spotting a small collection of mutilated gourds in Eddie’s recycling, Richie takes pity and not only shows him how to make his mom’s renowned pumpkin stew but also carves him a mini jack o lantern with oversized glasses and buck teeth. “See? Now you got a mini Richie to spy on you,” he joked, but the way Eddie looked at him like he was some sort of genius just for cutting into a fucking squash made him smile a little wider than he had for a while.

It’s nice. It’s _so_ nice. And not at all weird. Which is what he is trying to explain to Patty during a Turtle Shell shift.

They don’t often have a shift together – partly because Patty has commissions and exhibitions to create and organise, and partly because together they’re like the naughty kids at the back of the class the teacher throws chalk at – so this is a sacred moment. One that is immediately ruined by Patty asking the same question she always does.

“So you aren’t shacking up?”

Richie groans. “ ** _Pats._** ”

She throws up her arms in surrender. She’s in the middle of sorting a job lot of condoms into latex and non-latex piles. It’s a new scheme Kay’s setting up; since there’s no hope in hell that anyone’s going to live like nuns, they can at least be safe about it. Richie’s just got off the line to some kid out in the Bronx who got evicted from his place and his folks won’t take him back now they know he isn’t going to marry some nice girl from his church. As he starts to take down notes (strictly confidential, but helpful to the programme), Patty takes the whole box and tips its contents out onto the table in front of her, condoms spilling everywhere. Richie sighs. Wow. What a life.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” she begins again, and Richie groans louder. It causes a few stares.

“For the last time,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Sorry, sorry, but… you gotta think about your track record. You go gaga for anyone who’s nice to you.” He huffs. “Don’t gimme that. You nearly proposed marriage to that musician dude before Connor because he said he liked your shoes.”

“Hey, Jaxon was a stand up guy!”

“He did coke in the bathroom of a Chuck E Cheese.”

“We were 22, Pats, you saying you _wouldn’t_ do coke in the bathroom of a Chuck E Cheese?”

She fixes him with an unimpressed stare that makes him squirm in his seat. “No, and neither would you, you narc. Unless the guy handing it to you said you looked pretty and asked you nice. Then you’d fake it and cry about later.”

He snorts. “Whatever, that was the _old_ Richie,” he presses, flipping his notepad over to keep scribbling. “The new Richie is emotionally mature.”

“Uh huh.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, so Eddie’s kind of… perfect, actually. Because neither of us want anything out of being friends, I get to be honest. I can be as… as _me_ as I want because I’m not worrying about how to get him to like me enough to come back to my place. Y’know. For boning time.”

Patty hums thoughtfully as she shifts through the foil packs. She does it with an impressive level of speed, and a delicate flick of her wrist. “Rich, you shouldn’t have to hide who you are.” She pauses for dramatic effect, and Richie can sense a compliment coming. “Little do you realise, you’re actually really…”

“Don’t,” he warns, his stomach clenching.

“-truly-”

“No.”

“-loveable.”

“Augh, you said it.” He flings an arm over his face and slumps dramatically in his seat. “I’m dead, I’m deceased, put me to the earth and send a lock of my hair to mother.”

“Quit it!” Patty smacks him on the arm, then pinches his side to make him yelp. “You know it’s true, asshole.”

“Hm, debateable. I require evidence in the form of written reports.”

“Ugh. Hopeless.” She flicks a condom wrapper at him. It lands on his face with enough force to make him twitch. “Eddie likes the real you.”

“Eh, I dunno,” he shrugs, peeking out from under his arm. “Jury’s out on that one.” Another wrapper comes flying at him, so he sits up and flicks it back. “But, see, that’s the thing. It doesn’t matter! No pressure, no one gets hurt, it’s a win-win situation! We talk about dates we’ve been on together and it’s not weird.” He grins. “We’re slowly making a guidebook to the New York dating scene. He’s adamant on a rating system.”

Patty smirks. “Well, the way you’re going through ‘em I expect the completed draft on my desk in 2-4 working weeks.”

Richie can’t stop the rush of heat to his face as well as the sickening feeling that gathers in the pit of his stomach, even as he smiles weakly back at her. “Go fuck yourself,” he says smugly, but god does he suddenly want this conversation to end.

He considers himself lucky, really. After the speedbump of a start with fucking Madison County, he’s tried going at it full throttle; he’s really been taking the term ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ and stretching it to its limit. He knows plenty of guys on the scene, some that looked at him when he was with Connor and some that look now. Work at the Turtle Shell, combined with being thrown in holding during demonstrations, tends to bring like-minded people together. It means that the odds of finding someone willing to go out to a bar and then slam him against an alley wall an hour or so later is surprisingly high. They know he’s clean, he’s sensible and, well… maybe they think he’s easy, too. That is, until they take him home. Not so easy then.

He doesn’t mean to do it; he wants it, he really does, it beats through him like its own pulse – but he just reaches a road block the moment clothes start coming off. He can’t do it. He just can’t. He shuts down, or panics, or feels like he wants to fucking crawl out of his skin. He’s given a few lacklustre blowjobs, a couple of handies maybe, but that’s his limit. That’s where it ends.

He never wants to be touched, never stays over and never calls after.

He can handle the ones who get mad, the ones who expected more. He can get angry back, or leave their place so fast his feet don’t touch the ground. The ones who are softer, more understanding – they’re the worst.

He likes to think it’s not a hang up from Connor, that he just needs to get over being intimate with someone new – but lately, he’s not so sure.

It’s not healthy, the shit he pulls on these guys: he’s painfully aware of that. He’s also not some starry-eyed kid who thinks everyone who wants him must also love him. But he _liked_ sex with Connor. He _misses_ it. He wants it back. So, practice makes perfect. He lies about it, of course, but he doesn’t like the way Eddie doesn’t smile or laugh along with his imagined sexcapades. He just sits there quietly, watching him with those big fucking Bette Davis eyes of his, and Richie’s convinced he can see right through him. And maybe that’s worse than the understanding guys he leaves in bed alone.

“Look,” Patty says, bringing him back to the present, “You don’t need me to tell you that what you’re doing is fucking reckless and dumb. You _know_ it is.”

“I’m careful,” Richie says, that sickening feeling slowly working its way up his body. “Jeez, Pats, what do you take me for? I’m not some greenhorn kid fresh off the boat.”

She huffs, reaches over and twirls his hair around her finger idly. “I know that. I just worry.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry, Eds says he’ll kick my ass if I don’t have regular checks. My local clinic are gonna get a Christmas card. ‘Thanks For Making Sure I’m Not Diseased, Happy Holidays’.”

Patty frowns at him and pulls the hair she has hold of. “What did we say about using humour as a coping mechanism?”

“Ow! Pats, the fuck?” She glares. She pulls it again. “Jeez, fuck! Alright, goddamnit. We don’t use humour as a coping mechanism because laughing at yourself makes it okay for everyone else to laugh at you.”

She smiles and releases him. Richie reels back with a glower. Psychopath.

“So, when you say you tell Eddie everything…”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Do you mean…”

“Oh god.”

“…everything?” She raises her brows. “Even the stuff you don’t tell me?”

He rolls his eyes and gives up even pretending to work. “You mean, do I tell him all the horny details I absolutely refuse to tell you because you’ll judge me?” When she nods, he just laughs. “You really haven’t met Eddie, hoo boy. Telling him about my sex life is like talking to a doctor. Strictly professional, a couple eyebrow raises and the occasional ‘hm’ like he’s gonna tell me I’ll throw my back out.”

This seems to settle Patty, since she then asks, “Does he know about the time someone made you howl like a wolf when you came?”

“Oh my GOD, no one knows about that, shut the fuck up!”

“All okay here?” As if by magic, Kay materialises behind them in her smart business suit and a pointed arch to her eyebrow. Uh oh. Here’s Teach.

Richie sits up straight, tucking his hands under his armpits, and nods. Kay doesn’t seem convinced. “Honey,” she croons, and Patty jumps to attention too. “How’s this coming along? I know it’s boring, but-”

“It’s fine!” Patty replies breezily, already beginning to sort them at superhuman speed again. “Nothing to worry about here, I got us covered.”

Kay smiles and reaches over to smooth a hand over Patty’s shoulder. Kay’s always been a tactile person, ever since Richie met her at a picket line when he was 22, and her amiable split with Patty years ago means they’re still fine with casual touches, the comforting squeezes. It also means Patty is still absolutely _whipped_ , and Richie likes to give her shit for it every chance he gets. While Kay’s not looking, he mimes a whiplash motion with his tongue stuck out, and Patty scowls. Once Kay looks back, the imaginary whip has disappeared.

Just before she leaves, she pauses. Her brows furrow as she gazes down at Richie, and he can’t help but feel trapped by those eyes. “You howled like a wolf once?” she asks.

Patty collapses in a fit of laughter, and Richie seriously considers the benefits of being buried alive.

* * *

Eddie starts questioning his sanity when he’s in the middle of a date and he starts thinking about Richie.

It’s not even that the date is boring. The guy is nice; his name is Teddy, he’s handsome, he’s a filmmaker fresh out of LA trying to make it in the big apple, and he has this sweet way of toying with his hair when he’s nervous. And he _is_ nervous; Eddie can see it in his posture, the way he hunches over to make himself small. The fact that he is the person making him nervous almost makes him laugh. He’s worth being nervous over. Huh. That’s new. Anyway, Teddy is unlike the handful of other dates Eddie’s been on because he seems like a normal, fully functioning human being. Eddie really doesn’t know what his problem is.

They’re in a nice restaurant, eating a meal Teddy insisted on paying for, and they’re having a good time. Eddie is relaxing. He thinks he could be onto something here. But his mind, like the feral gremlin it is, bounces back to Richie.

It’s a date night for the both of them, a rare overlap, and he finds himself hoping it’s going as well for Richie as it is for him. He feels like Richie might… god, he doesn’t know. Need it more? Eddie obviously isn’t against the idea of lifelong companionship for the foreseeable future, but he’s pretty sure Richie needs it like breathing.

“-so there I was in West Hollywood, no camera, no pants and a bunch of tourists who looked like they _really_ wanted to capture the moment with a photograph,” Teddy finishes his story with a laugh, and Eddie smiles and laughs too because Teddy is not going to come home with him tonight, despite how well this is going, because Richie fucking Tozier won’t get out his head. He has to laugh, or else he’ll up-end the vase of flowers on their table over himself.

Jesus fucking Christ, this is what he’s been reduced to.

As Teddy launches into another story, Eddie theorises that, logistically, it makes sense. He and Richie have spent a lot of time together, every day some weeks, so it’s only natural that his mind remains tethered to him, bobbing there like a balloon in an updraught. Richie is a constant, like Stan or Bill – then again, Stan or Bill don’t drive him quite as crazy as Richie does. It’s a specific kind of rage that Richie incites in Eddie, and he can’t tell it it’s gotten worse now he knows him better or not.

Maybe it’s mutated into another kind, the kind that makes him want to just… stop being the Eddie who goes to work and is professional and gets shit done. Maybe it’s the kind that makes him want to be a little insane, the way he’s never been. After all, he _did_ get that gross couch from Goodwill that probably had mites because he thought Richie would like it. And he did let Richie teach him the ‘I Can’t Dance’ dance one night. When Bill walked in unannounced, they ended up doing it in a train around the apartment with Pygmalion barking at their heels for the better half of two hours. He got plenty of noise complaints that night. But that could just be how catchy the song is. It could also be because Richie started the whole thing off by miming (see: performing) the song in its entirety, just to get Eddie smiling after a hard day at the office. Ugh-

“-Fucking Genesis,” he says aloud, and Teddy stops mid-story.

“Sorry,” he says with a laugh, “Genesis? Do you mean the band?”

Eddie immediately wants to eat his own hand. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking about them, you mentioned Phil Collins earlier and my friend is obsessed.” Then, to Eddie’s horror, he doesn’t just stop talking. He fucking keeps going. “Like, he spent half an hour telling me that they wrote _I Can’t Dance_ to make fun of all the Calvin Klein jeans commercials – you know, they can’t dance, they can’t talk, but they can walk? Anyway, nobody gets it because you see Phil fucking Collins in the music video absolutely slaying it and apparently we have to have explanations spoon-fed to us. The whole song is just a massive joke, just like Jesus He Knows Me.”

“Uh.” Teddy is polite enough to give him a smile. “Right. Nutty.”

Eddie eyes the flowers again, wondering if foregoing the water and just knocking himself out with the vase might help this situation. “You… didn’t ask. I just spewed fucking Genesis trivia at you and you never asked.”

“You kinda did,” Teddy laughs. “But it’s okay. Your friend a critic or something?”

“No, he works in charity,” Eddie mutters, and Teddy has the good grace smile and nod and carry on with his story like Eddie’s verbal diarrhoea never happened. 

Shit, he might actually be going crazy. Fuck.

_Either way, sorry Teddy: you won’t be coming back to mine_ , Eddie thinks sadly. _Wish you fucking were._

He pays for dessert to show there’s no hard feelings, they swap numbers and he even says he’d like to do it again sometime. Teddy’s bright and enthusiastic agreement makes Eddie feel bad, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair to promise anything more. He doesn’t know what sort of fucking complex he’d get if he took him home and Richie was _still_ the most important thing spinning around his head. Then he really would be broken, and if he is he’d rather not know.

So when he opens the door to his apartment distinctly Teddy-less, his plan for the rest of the night is to pour one last glass of wine, let Pygmalion out for his evening pee and then fall face-first into bed. He gets to pouring half a glass before his phone rings. He groans, but gets to it in a couple of strides anyway.

“Edward Kaspbrak,” he greets, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

At first there’s nothing. He debates on hanging up, but then the person on the line sniffles.

“Who is this?” he asks, a little coldly. Shit, he is not going to be a character in a horror film who dies before the title screen. Fuck that. This asshole won’t have their fun with him.

But then a voice comes through the static. “You always answer your phone with your full name, Eds?”

Eddie manages to relax and tense all at once. Richie. “You of all people know I don’t,” he replies curtly. “Why are you calling me? Thought you had a date.” He pauses. “Oh God, is he there with you? I didn’t ask for a live rendition of you getting laid, man, we’re not that close.”

A chuffing sound comes down the line, and it sounds like a laugh but Eddie can’t be sure. It’s too weak to be a proper laugh – he basically has a spotter’s guide of Richie’s laughs by now, and this isn’t a common one. “No fair man, I’m the funny one in this friendship,” he says.

“Oh yeah? What does that make me?” Eddie smiles, heading back to his abandoned wine. He untangles the phone cord as he goes, trying not to trip over it in his mission to the couch.

“Easy. You’re the grown-up. Which is, uh, kinda why I’m calling.”

Eddie’s smile falls. “What’s up?”

Richie takes a while to answer. When he does, it sounds a little less together. “Do you still, um, have that rental car from when you had to go out of town last week?” The words sound breakable.

“Yeah, it’s not due back ‘til tomorrow. Why?”

“I…” Richie’s voice trails off. It somehow comes back even smaller than before, and very unlike Richie. “Could you come pick me up? I don’t have the money for a cab, and I just… I wanna go home.”

It sounds child-like and wobbly. Eddie’s already picking up his jacket. “Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m at a phonebox in the East Village, uh… outside a 7-Eleven. Opposite the guy’s place.”

“Street name?”

“I… I don’t know… shit, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. Keep talking,” Eddie urges, hopping around the hallway in his effort to put his shoes back on. “Anything else you can see?”

Richie gives him enough local landmarks to go on. Eddie promises he’ll get there fast, tells him to go into the 7-11 since it’s cold as hell out and any shelter is better than nothing. He puts the phone back in its cradle, scoops Pygmalion up under his arm and leaves with record efficiency.

He drives like a madman. Pygmalion slides around the backseat and complains loudly about it until Eddie pulls in, fashions a harness out of the seatbelts to strap him into the front seat, then floors it again. He gets honked a lot; the caterwauling of cabs and commuters don’t bother him though, even as he tries to move faster than a snail through the beating heart of the city.

When he reaches the East Village and the fluorescent sign of a 7-Eleven comes into view, he also sees a phonebox he’s sure is filled by Richie’s shadow. He pulls in so close he mounts the kerb and lays his hand on the horn. The shadow jolts. Eddie keeps his hand there, even when Richie steps out of the box and slopes towards him. He takes his time coming out, though; Eddie notices the way he hangs his head and waits a few seconds before he heads toward him. Eddie’s chest gets heavy.

Oh. Oh, this was a bad date, alright.

The streetlights are old in this area and make Richie a sickly giant who shuffles towards him, hands in his pockets and his shoulders drawn up to his ears. It reminds Eddie of that day back in the bookstore, that cautious hope Richie held in every ounce of body language that Eddie wasn’t going to turn him away and pick the nicer, better-groomed dog in the kennel next door. The thought makes Eddie grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles pop.

_What the fuck. What the FUCK._

Richie opens the door and is immediately assaulted by Pygmalion, who would definitely leap into his arms if the seatbelt prison wasn’t keeping him contained. “Hey, Pig,” Richie coos, his smile unsteady as Eddie releases him. “How’s it hanging buddy, huh?” Pygmalion answers by jumping all over Richie like he’s a long-lost friend, his stump of a tail wagging madly.

It’s then that Eddie notices it. The right side of Richie’s face is pink, and not from the chill outside. It looks tender and a little swollen, and the eye that sometimes creases into a squint when he smiles is squintier than usual. Richie doesn’t notice Eddie’s scrutiny, too focused on Pygmalion and keeping him on his lap as he clambers into the seat. Pygmalion licks his face, the non-pink side, and Richie musses up his coat with a muted smile as Eddie sits there, stewing. Eddie is pretty sure what made Richie’s face like that. But he doesn’t say anything – he _can’t_ – because if he does, he’s pretty sure he’s going to go fucking nuclear.

It takes Richie a whole minute to realise they’re not moving.

“Uh, Eddie?” he questions gently. “Gonna start that engine, pal?” He glances to the window like he’s expecting someone to come out of the houses opposite and run them down.

Eddie grits his teeth. “What happened?”

Richie flinches the way he always does when he’s asked something he doesn’t want to answer. Eddie should know – he’s usually the one doing the asking.

Richie sucks in a breath – he thinks he’s being subtle, the way he does it, but he’s fucking not – and holds it for a second or two before letting it out in a breezy, “Nothing to worry your li’l head about, Eddie my sweet.”

It’s a shadow of Richie’s usual tone. Eddie’s not fucking stupid.

“Okay, no. Not buying it. Rich, don’t do this to me.”

Richie tickles Pygmalion behind his ear but keeps his mouth shut. Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls away. Fine. If he doesn’t wanna talk, two can play at that game. He shuts up too, gritting his teeth even more. Fucking Richie. Stupid fucking dates. God, fuck all of this.

Since silence is Richie’s own personal brand of torture, it doesn’t take long for him to crack. “Sorry to drag you out in this. I know you had a date too.”

Eddie winces. “Please don’t,” he says, his voice almost breaking with how soft he makes it. “Don’t say sorry. It’s fine, Rich.” He sighs. “It’s all fine. Besides, can’t you see all the amazing sex I’m not having?”

Instead of the laugh he’s expecting, he’s horrified to hear a distinctive sniffle, the same kind as the one down the phone. Shit, Richie is _not_ going to cry in this car. “Oh, no no no,” he says in a rush, eyes frantic but still on the road. “No, no, not this, not here, no way. Wanna hear about my date? Let’s talk about that, c’mon.”

Another sniffle. “Okay,” Richie says, his voice two sizes too small. “Shoot.”

“Okay. Uh…” Shit. Eddie actually has nothing bad to say about his date, except the fact he was thinking about Richie the whole fucking time, and that isn’t going to land well. Goddamnit. “He lived in West Hollywood for three years, like… how stereotypically gay can you get?” he begins. It’s a weak blow, but it’s an attempt. “And he makes documentaries about poverty and the Life of the Little Man despite the fact he is the most Middle Class dude I’ve ever met and has probably never had a cheque bounce in his entire life. A-and uh…”

Nothing. There’s nothing bad about him. Eddie actually really fucking liked him. Panicking, he just lets his mouth run about Teddy’s dumb hair that hides his ears and his glasses that are cheap in an edgy way and more out of fashion that Richie’s Buddy Holly cast-offs and how he’s actually interested in the articles Eddie has to write like some sort of loser. When he’s done, there’s a beat of silence.

“He sounds nice,” Richie says. Eddie huffs. He knows. He _knows_ he’s nice, so why can’t he fucking _be with him if he’s so fucking nice-_

Eddie rips his attention from the road to see Richie practically curled in his seat like a pill bug. Pygmalion is somehow asleep in his arms, despite Eddie’s rant. A muscle twitches in his jaw and he looks back to the road, turning tighter than usual. “Honest,” Richie adds, which further drives in the nail. “Are… are you seeing him again?”

Eddie nearly bites through his tongue. “Not sure.”

“Why not?”

“Christ, Richie, I don’t fucking know!” he snaps, some of the anger breaking loose. “I don’t know, okay? I just. Don’t.”

Richie goes quiet. Eddie feels like an asshole. Back to square one. It’s this that makes him take a wrong turn; he’s confronted with traffic to sit in for his error. He swears under his breath. Well. Better than a crash.

He rests his head on the wheel with a noise that probably comes out of a deflating tire, and he can feel Richie’s somewhat wary gaze on him. Once his head comes up he says, “When you called I was worried about you, you moron. I _am_ worried.” He turns to glare at him, because _yes_ it’s his fault that Eddie’s feeling so wired, and sees Richie’s face firmly pressed against the window, fogging up the glass. “Look. I can listen. I’m good at that. And I can get you home, if this fucking traffic starts moving.” Richie nods, but doesn’t move. Eddie wants to touch him, but he’s not sure if he should right now. “Please look at me, Rich. I’m a shithead, I know, I shouldn’t have-”

“You’re not a shithead,” Richie says, slow and delicate.

“No?”

He gives a tiny headshake. “Not to me.”

Ooh, okay, that’s enough to cause fury apparently. He wants to clamber over his gearbox and shake Richie by the sweater, tell him that he’s wrong, that Eddie is an absolute disaster of a human being and how DARE Richie think he’s anything more than that. Eddie is well aware that he’s a shouty little man with a complex that means he can’t like the Teddys of the world, but is more than happy to settle for the Myras. He doesn’t want to hear the likes of Richie Tozier tell him he’s – what, better than that? No. He can’t. Because what the fuck does that mean for him?

So all Eddie does is take a deep breath and say, “Yeah, well so are you.”

“Eh?” This seems to jolt Richie out of whatever funk he’s thrown himself into.

“You’re not a shithead. Since, for some reason, you seem convinced you are.”

“I don’t-”

“I get that you don’t like being worried about, but tough shit. I worry. People worry. And that’s because you’re a good fucking person, okay?”

Richie takes a moment. Eddie lets him. The traffic starts to move, and he makes an executive decision to turn left away from the main road. When Richie gives him a quizzical look, Eddie answers, “We’re going to get a burger.”

“Uh. Eds, it’s like midnight, won’t this mess with your weird salad diet?”

“You’re saying you _don’t_ want a burger?”

“No, I… I want a burger.”

They get burgers.

Eddie drives to the worst looking restaurant in existence, but hey, it has drive-through. They’re in line (because apparently even the worst burger places in New York have _lines_ at their drive-through at midnight) for their order when Richie lets out a long sigh. Eddie waits.

“Eds, I dunno what I’m gonna be able to say to make you think I’m fine,” he says eventually.

“That probably means you’re not fine, you know,” Eddie replies without looking at him. He’s staring at the menu through his window just to stop looking for the mark on Richie’s face. He has no idea what any of the names mean, so he’s going to have to go with the basic offering they have and hope it isn’t too indigestible. He glances back at Richie, because he can’t fucking help it, and says, “Did he…?” and gestures to his face. Because, honestly? There’s literally no point in him trying to be subtle.

Richie blinks, and looks almost surprised that he noticed it. He rubs the side of his face and twists his mouth into a frown. “Oh, that. Yeah, sort of. He, uh… he slapped me.”

And there it is, the confirmation Eddie didn’t want but is getting anyway. It makes him want to punch something. It also makes him feel a little sick. But obviously, what comes out of his mouth is, “oh holy shit,” because in times of great crises his brain can be powerfully eloquent.

Richie snorts weakly. “Like there needs to be a reason for people to wanna hit me, right?”

“No!” Eddie snaps. “No, you don’t get to say that, Richie!! You know that’s not okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Eddie, c’mon, he only did it like twice...”

“He did it MORE THAN FUCKING ONCE?”

A car horn blares behind him as a reminder that he’s actually in a line and he needs to move along. Eddie sticks his head out of the window and shouts, “Hey dickhead, ever heard of the word patience?!”

The spotty, teenaged perpetrator yells back, “Aw c’mon dude, I just want some cheese fries!”

“THERE WILL BE CHEESE FRIES IN FIVE MINUTES FUCKASS, THERE’S NOT A NATIONAL FUCKING SHORTAGE.”

But Eddie moves, his entire body almost vibrating with rage. He knows it’s unwarranted, that shouting out of the window at some fucking stoner isn’t going to change the fact that Richie got hit by someone, but it feels a little better.

Richie is watching him from his seat with a mixture of amusement and caution. “Fuckass?” he queries. “That’s a new one.” 

Eddie shoots him a look of absolute venom as they pull up to the serving hatch. “Shut up I’m ordering burgers what do you want.”

Richie orders something, slightly bemused by the whole thing, and Eddie orders the same because the hell with it.

Only once they’ve pulled into the parking lot to eat does Richie mutter, “Eddie, I gotta explain, c-can I explain?” like he’s a kid asking permission.

Eddie turns his whole body in his seat, nearly kicking the gearstick out of ‘Park’. “Why did he hit you?” he demands. “Which house was that fucker in because I will go back there and-”

“Okay, okay you’re clearly hot right now so maybe we can just… eat first?” Richie asks.

Eddie opens his mouth to complain, but Richie’s face stops him. There’s not even a trace of the guy Eddie knows; all he sees is the dictionary definition of defeated. Tired. Someone who said they wanted to go home and instead are sat in a burger joint parking lot because Eddie asked them to.

When Richie adds, “Please?” into the quiet, Eddie knows he’ll do whatever the fuck Richie wants.

So they eat. Eddie doesn’t know why he suggested this at first: he already ate someplace fancy with super-nice David who isn’t currently kissing him senseless against his kitchen top, so he’s already on a losing streak. Besides, the burger tastes like it may have once seen a picture of a cow and thought it was too much effort to taste like that.

No, he really doesn’t know why he thought this would be a good idea – until he does. He remembers how before his dad got sick he used to take Eddie for burgers if he did something like pick a fight he couldn’t win or his Mom was being hard on him, or his Dad, or the both of them. They’d sit in the parking lot and there, away from everyone else and the comforting space of one another close by, they would talk it out. Shoot the shit. Chew the fat. And Eddie would feel better – more than better, he’d feel _safe_.

_Shit,_ he thinks as he stares down at the burger in his hands, _I haven’t thought about Dad for a long time._ And yet here he is. Trying to help Richie the only way he knows how.

He clears his throat. “My, uh, my Dad used to say a good greasy burger solves everything,” he mutters to the car. It’s not strictly to Richie, although he’s the only other person there. Eddie’s not sure _who_ it’s for, exactly. Maybe for himself, in some strange way.

Richie answers anyway. “Smart man,” he comments, taking a disgustingly big bite. Eddie wrinkles his nose. “You don’t talk about him much.”

Eddie swallows his mouthful painfully. “No. I kind of don’t make a habit of it.” He’s keeping his weird, fucked up anger at a level simmer now, and he wills his breath to come a little more even and give him a fucking break for once. Pygmalion whines in Richie’s lap, but Eddie ignores him. He tries to ignore everything, pushing it down to the heels of his shoes. Walk long enough on your troubles and they’ll turn to dust, his family used to say. Turns out that just bred a whole brood of mentally ill men. Go fucking figure. “He died when I was eleven, so I take whatever memories I got.”

He glances at Richie’s cheek again, the mark fading slightly now but the swelling still there. “Anyway, this is meant to make you feel better.”

Richie smiles, and this one seems more like him. It’s not a mask, it’s not pained, it’s Richie. “It’s working.” He’s settled loose in his seat now, fending off Pygmalion’s hopeful noses at his food. He’s uncurling bit by bit, and that’s what makes Eddie believe him. “Are _you_ feeling better?” he then asks.

Eddie scoffs. Classic Richie, trying to turn it back on him. He doesn’t feel anything, except pissed off that Richie gets himself into these fucking situations and makes him want to commit crime. He pauses. Okay, maybe he _does_ need to calm down. He rolls his eyes under Richie’s scrutiny and replies, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Richie says.

“Okay,” Eddie agrees. “Can you tell me now?”

Richie tells him.

He went on a date with some guy Connor used to hang out with called Victor – stupid name, same office as Connor, closeted like Connor was before he married Richie. So far so normal. But ‘Victor’ always looked at him, even when he was very blatantly with Connor, and for way longer than was comfortable. Connor used to joke about him stealing his boyfriend away, but there had been a barbed hint hidden inside there: _get too close and you’ll be sorry._ So, naturally, Richie wanted to do exactly that.

“Part of me wanted it to get back at Connor, y’know? Like, ‘fuck you man, I’m fucking that friend you always didn’t like around me, what are you gonna do about it’?”

‘Victor’ comes from a rich family. He has a good job, better than Connor. He drives a brand-new Dodge Neon. And Eddie is already reaching boiling point.

He hasn’t even heard the whole story yet, but he is keeping his mouth fucking shut until the end. There’s an almost visceral aspect to the anger that’s bubbling through him now. Instead of digging his nails into the seat he just eats his burger like an animal, tearing holes in the wrapper as he goes instead of the plush leather interior this car sports. He keeps looking at Richie’s eye, how it’s almost shut now, and how it’s very likely to bruise. He nearly pulverises the burger.

Richie sighs then. “Look, I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal out of it. It’s nothing. I’m just being a little bitch.”

Eddie’s anger surges up like it’s been waiting for the opportunity – which it definitely has. “But he-!”

“He didn’t hit me the way you think,” Richie says quietly. “It wasn’t, like, a fight or anything.”

Eddie stares at him. “Then why the fuck would he hit you?”

Richie huffs. “It was… uh… during.”

Eddie frowns. “During what?”

“During a game of Parcheesi, Eds,” Richie replies sarcastically, “what do you think?”

It dawns on him like a creeping shadow. “Oh.” Eddie senses the flush build up around his face, and no matter how much he tries to fight it back down it stays there, obvious and stupid. He doesn’t think he’s a prude or boring when it comes to – well, _that_ – but since that shit didn’t spring to mind right away, maybe he is. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Richie rubs the back of his neck, his burger now eaten and the wrapper forgotten. “Just sorta happened. One minute it was normal, then he reels back and… well. Does this.” He gestures to his face. “What can I say? If the guy gets off on it, he gets off on it.”

“But did he even warn you?” Eddie shoots back. “And, fuck, do _you_ get off on that?”

He knows the answer even before Richie shakes his head. Of course Richie doesn’t like being slapped. Because he knows Richie Tozier needs to be handled gently, like a watch with broken parts. And you know what? Fuck anyone who does otherwise.

“Why did you let him do it?” he asks. He wanted it to come out like a demand – instead, it comes out small. Helpless. Because he doesn’t understand.

Richie lets out the heaviest sigh Eddie’s heard come out of him. “Okay, man, I’ll level with you.”

He strokes Pygmalion absentmindedly as he stares up at the roof of the car, and Eddie realises it’s because he’s trying to distract himself from how hard he’s blinking. He’s trying not to cry in front of him, trying to keep it in check because that’s what you were supposed to do. Eddie isn’t sure whether he wants to hug him or get out of the car and run the next few blocks to get away from him.

Richie finally closes his eyes, gulps, makes an odd noise at the back of his throat that could be a swallowed-down sob. “I thought it would make me feel something. Because I don’t. I don’t feel anything, Eds, it’s like I’m fuckin dead, and I…” He breaks off with a hard swallow, eyes scrunching tight like he's having a bad dream. “I just wanted to wake the fuck up.”

Just like that, Eddie’s anger is extinguished. What’s left is just an ache, an emptiness in the wake of a fire. “Connor really did a number on you, huh?” he says.

Richie says nothing. He doesn’t really needs to. Eddie knows.

He keeps his eyes shut, which makes it easier for Eddie to slide his hand across the width of the car and take his hand. It’s a shock to the system, touching Richie like this; he’s butted his shoulder, smacked him on the arm, kicked his leg under the table, but this is small and it’s deliberate. Richie’s hand is cold to the touch and shaking, but Eddie doesn’t mind.

_I’ve got you,_ he thinks stupidly. _I’ve got you, you’re gonna be fine, you can feel this._

Richie’s eyes snap open at the contact, his entire body seizing up just because Eddie’s fucking touched him, and Eddie hates the guy who did this to him. He hates all the people who have done this, who have made someone like Richie think touching is a bad thing and worthy of punishment.

Eddie says, “I am so angry right now,” and is careful not to misplace that anger.

“Yeah, well.” Richie gives a short laugh. “I’m not exactly jumping for joy about it, myself.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand and hopes he understands. As Richie’s hand warms under his own, he likes to think that Richie might – just a bit.

“You wanna stay at mine tonight?” he asks, once he finds his voice again. “You can take the bed.”

Richie looks down at their hands, takes a breath, and slides his hand out from underneath Eddie’s. The loss feels physical. “I’ll stay if you promise you won’t give up your bed,” he replies. “Couch is fine.”

Eddie shifts back into his seat properly, puts his seatbelt on, tries to account for the heat burning deep in him that isn’t anger for a change. “Whatever, you get Pygmalion all night.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You say that like it’s not, he snores.”

And just like that, they’re back to normal. Eddie sags with relief as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.

So sure, he takes a guy home – that guy just happens to be Richie, who is far too busy making baby talk at Pygmalion to notice the trailing telephone cable and goes down like a felled tree. Eddie yells at him to keep it down, but he also leaves a pot of Vitamin K cream out on the coffee table for the morning.

The next day, once Richie’s headed off to work, Eddie drives back to the East Village on his lunch break and keys the first Dodge Neon he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is basically just the entirety of the New Years' Party, but we'll call it 'Winter' for solidarity. 
> 
> Some notes on this chapter:   
> \- There was a whole scene where Richie mimes along to Genesis and ends up getting Eddie to dance with him but the pacing was weird and I couldn't get it right so I had to scrap it. Just listen to 'I Can't Dance' and imagine the shuffle  
> \- Actually just watch the music video to that song period, it's great  
> \- Teddy will be coming back  
> \- Blue hair is also coming back 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and see you on the flipside~


	6. Part 5: New York, Winter 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we finally have the next part up~ See why I couldn't have this as a big chunky chapter? It would have killed people. It would have been huge.   
> Anyway, this is the rest of 1996 and all its wonder. It's basically a massive new years party that veers so far away from the original material that it might as well have crashed, but hey! In this chapter we see the return of the Cursed Blue Hair, the New Years party that is essentially Eddie's debutante ball and all the drama that comes with it. It's a trainwreck. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave some kudos or drop a comment; I love hearing from readers and I'm always happy to answer any questions!

The days get impossibly colder after that, so much so that it snows for the first time in mid-November. It’s not much, just a tickle of white on the sidewalk, but it’s a gentle threat of what’s to come.

Things change. Kay puts Richie in charge of training new starts at the Turtle Shell because he’s approachable and friendly and all the newbies love him anyway, so it makes sense. He gets a letter from two boys; he gave them both the advice and confidence to leave their families and set up a place for them to crash for a little while, and they want to let him know how much happier they are now, and how much it means to them. Richie takes a time out to hide his tears from the others, but he also frames the letter and puts it above his new desk like it’s a diploma. In some way, it is – proof that he can do good things, for whenever he needs a reminder. It also gives him a pay rise, enough to quit his second job and focus on the Turtle Shell full time.

But other things change too. After the night with the burgers, a barrier seems to have lifted between them. Richie was always careful, even when Eddie let slip he dated men as well as women, not to touch him too much. It’s a learnt behaviour from when he was a teenager and the many times after that he asked for contact and got told ‘no’. Or, obviously, when guys got the wrong idea and gave him shit for it. He knows to keep back, to treat people like they’re ornaments in an antique shop, no matter now much his hands itch. He’s the kid who wants to touch, want to smear his grubby hands all over the porcelain and resin. But Eddie’s the shopkeeper who storms over and tells him to grab everything off the shelves, and so what if some of them break?

It’s a roundabout way of saying that Eddie has started touching him more. Nothing incriminating, it’s all casual; a brush of arms, playful nudges and hands on shoulders. Richie can’t get enough of it: and that, well, it could be a problem. But it’s not one right now, so he’s going to take whatever he can get.

Which is why, when they’re hanging out at Richie’s on a typical Friday night, Richie is sat in the middle of his kitchen with a garbage bag around him in a makeshift poncho, and Eddie is standing over him with gloves and a bottle of violently blue hair dye. Looking pretty fucking dubious, if Richie says so himself.

“Eds, it’s fine,” he prompts. “It’s just hair. If you fuck up, I’ll just shave it all off.”

Eddie stares wild-eyed at him. “You dare. If you shave your head, you’ll never get laid.”

“Charming.”

Eddie’s still shaking the bottle. Richie cocks an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to do it,” he says. “I can do it myself.”

Eddie stares at him like he just suggested he shave off his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? You are kidding me, right? You need to get it all over your head, dude, otherwise it looks dumb.”

“Ah yes, because blue hair is the height of sophistication.”

“Shut up, I know what I’m doing. I used to do Myra’s.” He sets it down, picks up a brush (Richie didn’t know the name of it until Eddie told him an hour ago it was a pastry brush – and looked at him as if he came from Mars) and rolls up his shirt sleeves. His work shirt. Because, yes, apparently Eddie Kaspbrak just comes to Richie’s straight after work now. The thought makes Richie feel warm and wanted. “I think you’re committing to the bit too much, though,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Richie smiles. “My dear Eduardo, the theme is ‘throwback’. What’s more throwback than this?”

The ‘theme’ is for the annual Marsh-Hanscom New Years party. It’s one of the biggest events in Richie’s social calendar; being friends with the eponymous Beverly Marsh (through Patty) meant he was always invited. And, since birds of a feather flock together, it’s a party where Richie can be himself and chat up anyone he damn well wants to. Not like he feels like doing that right now. The disaster of a date with Dodge Neon Victor a few weeks back left him more scooped-out and fragile than normal, so he’s taking it slow. It’s just a night to have fun. That’s the plan, anyway.

Eddie advances on him with the dye, mouth set in grim determination. Richie has to laugh at the array of clips he has clinging to his shirt, ready to hold hair out of place. “Did you mug a hairdresser on the way over?” he snorts.

“No, I murdered him,” is Eddie’s dry response, and then he’s behind him. After Richie doesn’t stop sniggering, he gets a sharp jab with the handle of the brush in his side. “Don’t fucking laugh, you child, it needs to get in deep or else you’ll see your fucking roots. Sit still for like, two seconds.”

Richie sits still for longer than that. There’s a cold chill where Eddie applies the dye and then there’s the tickle of the brush, painting the blue all along his hairline and roots. Richie hums happily. He likes his hair being played with. It sends soft tingles down his neck, spreading out across his shoulders like rain. He relaxes. His body seems to know instinctively that it’s in good hands.

“What are you doing for New Years?” he asks, to fill the quiet.

Eddie makes an unsure noise. “Don’t know, really. Might be a quiet one with Pig.”

Though Richie delights in Eddie’s final adoption of the nickname for his dog, he presses on. “How come you’re on your own?”

“Well, Stan’s headlining at a drag show until late and Bill’s staying in with Mike, so I had the choice of third-wheeling the most awkward man in New York or playing wingman to the most calmly chaotic heel-wearing one, so figured I’d cut my losses.”

Richie snorts. “Okay, well… what about Maine? Not sticking around the home ground for any small-town holiday traditions?”

The brush stills in his hair. “I wouldn’t go back if you paid me,” he says tightly.

Richie tilts his head, just slightly. “Bad memories, huh champ?”

There’s a pause where Richie swears the brush trembles. Then: “Yeah. Bad memories. Head straight.”

Richie dutifully obeys. He also pushes. He’s not sure why. “Little Eddie wasn’t allowed to go around kissing boys then, eh?”

The brush vanishes, gets set on the side of the kitchen, and there’s a long enough pause for Richie to think, _shit how am I gonna explain vibrantly blue roots and nothing else_. But then the brush is replaced with Eddie’s hands. It’s a shock to Richie’s system, but he only jumps a little. His fingers sink into his hair easily, massaging the dye into whole chunks of it instead of just the roots. Richie’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head, and he swear to god _whimpers._ “If I so much as looked at _anyone_ ,” Eddie says, “I’d be in trouble.”

“Nngh,” Richie replies.

Eddie chuckles, and the sound spreads warmth down into Richie’s toes. They curl, not that he’ll notice. “Don’t you dare get hard on me,” he says, amused. “I promise I will never let you live it down, mister ‘I Get Lots Of Sex’.”

“Mmphl.”

“Hopeless,” he sighs. “This is easier, alright? Your hair’s just so fucking thick, there’s no way a brush can get through it. It’s like a goddamn birds’ nest, when was the last time you had it cut?”

“I’unno.”

“Use your words. Do you want half a blue head? You want that?”

“No, sir.”

Eddie huffs out another laugh and squirts more dye onto his head. He pins up sections of hair as he goes, stopping only to take off his gloves, cross the room and change the record that’s playing. Richie watches him do it, watches him stoop over his lovingly alphabetised box of records and puts on something with strong guitars and sneering vocals.

Richie knows the album immediately. Oasis. _(What’s The Story) Morning Glory?_

He mentioned it a few weeks ago when they were in one of his favourite haunts, a record shop down the backstreets not too far from his place. He said they were gonna be big, that the sound reminded him of Eddie because it’s brash and angry and just a little bit gritty, and Eddie just huffed and picked up something else. But he’s seen a copy of it tucked between the Genesis and Queen records in Eddie’s own little collection too.

Something settles comfortably in Richie’s chest, like a cat curling up by a fire. It feels safe, normal, secure. He offers a smile as Eddie wanders back, and he’s pleased when he gets a smile back as he pulls the gloves back on. It feels like a personal achievement.

Then Eddie’s hands are back, and Richie sinks down further in his seat. Safe. Secure. Normal.

“Never had you down as a Britpop man,” he comments.

“Neither did I,” Eddie quips. “But then I got told that these guys sound like me, so what was I supposed to do, ignore that shit?”

“Whoever told you that has quite an ear.”

“Whoever told me that is a moron.”

“But you like them?”

“I like them.”

“Good.”

They don’t need to clarify whether he means Richie and his Britpop opinion or the members of Oasis.

They lapse into silence, and for once Richie doesn’t want to break it. He’s happy to listen to the record, feel Eddie’s hands pulling and scruffing and dragging nails through his hair, and let the world slow down. Eddie sometimes mumbles a few of the words under his breath the way someone would do when they’ve listened to an album a lot, and that little cat in Richie’s chest rolls over and purrs. _Cosy_ , he lands on. _That’s the word I’m looking for. Cosy._

He almost complains when those hands disappear. “Okay, try to sit still for half an hour,” Eddie instructs.

“More sitting still?” he whines.

“Shocking, I know. Try not to explode.”

“You’ll have to find me a beer. Feed it to me through a straw.”

“You wish.”

But Eddie brings him a beer anyway, with a Gallagher brother snarling that Some Might Say We Will Find A Brighter Day, and Richie wonders what the fuck he’s done to deserve this. Maybe he’ll lose a kidney or something.

Eddie gets a beer for himself and leans against the kitchen top, toying with the bottle idly. His shirt sleeves are still rolled to the elbow. Richie dutifully and consciously ignores his forearms. “Home was rough for me,” he says, and for a moment Richie forgets where that’s coming from. _Earlier, idiot. Focus._ “The minute I left for college, I never wanted to go back. My mom is… well. Difficult. One phonecall at Christmas to hear what a failure I am is more than enough.” He smiles, but it fades quickly. “Sorry. Oversharing.”

Richie leans forward, but the warning flash in Eddie’s eyes makes him freeze. He puts his hands up in surrender and leans back. “Hey, don’t worry about telling me stuff like that. I’m good at secrets. It’s literally my job to listen to people.” He folds his arms. “But you’re not a failure.”

Eddie smiles down at his bottle. It looks bitter. “Yeah, well, in her eyes I am. I’m not a doctor, I don’t have a girlfriend and I’ve tried to date men. I’m basically her worst nightmare.”

Richie raises a brow. “She knows you’re-?”

“No.” Eddie frowns. “But I told her I’m writing a piece on the AIDS crisis and she screamed down the phone that I was going to get sick and die, so that’s enough for now.”

“Fuck,” Richie exhales. “That’s… that’s shit, Eddie.”

“Pretty much.” He shrugs. “I’m – well, I’m not ‘over it’ but it’s like. Fine. It’s fine. I can handle it.”

Richie considers this for a moment as Eddie takes a gulp from his bottle. He doesn’t know how Eddie keeps everything in check so seamlessly. Actually, no, not _seamlessly,_ the guy has two modes: stinging, defensive anger that drops like an atomic bomb or an eerie calmness. The calmness is new. But then again, so are the careful smiles. Maybe Richie was wrong before – Eddie wasn’t healthy back then, but now he’s trying to be. And he’s getting there.

“Only way is up, right?” Richie says in answer.

Eddie blows a sceptical raspberry in answer, and then promptly looks disappointed in himself. “I cannot _believe_ I just did that, Jesus fucking Christ we hang out too much.”

Richie schools his expression into one of shock. “Did I not tell you my sense of humour is contagious?”

“I should’ve got shots, I’m suing.”

“Bring it on, Brockovitch.”

Eddie smirks and checks the time. “Only ten more minutes. Sure you wanna do this in the sink and not over the bath?”

“Please, Bette Davis, the days of me being on my knees in bathrooms are over.”

Eddie promptly chokes on his beer.

He helps Richie rinse the dye off in the bathroom; with his eyes shut and head tipped under the sink, he hasn’t felt that vulnerable in a while. But it’s Eddie leaning over him, Eddie’s fingers combing through his hair and Eddie griping about his split ends and how often he washes his hair because “what the fuck Richie you could fry an egg on your skull with how much oil there is”, so it’s a-okay. He feels so okay, in fact, that when Eddie turns off the faucet and not so gently throws a towel over his head with a passing comment of, “should dye your beard blue as well so you match, you weirdo,” Richie blurts through a mouthful of towel, “You should come with me for New Year’s.”

Blinded by the towel, he actually bumps into Eddie with a muffled ‘oof’ on his way out to the main room. “What?” he asks.

“You should come. With me. To New Year’s.” He drops the towel around his face once he deems himself back in the right place and comes almost face to face with an uncertain Eddie. “Look man, no pressure. I just always get a plus one I never use cus Connor never came, and it’d be nice to go with someone for a change.”

Eddie frowns. “I dunno.”

“Think about it?” Richie offers. “I don’t have a date, you don’t have a date, we can make it a thing. Guaranteed company on the most depressing day of the year.”

Eddie’s frown doubles. “Suicide numbers _are_ high…”

“A cheery thought.” Richie starts rubbing his hair through the towel in an effort to dry it off. “But anyway, it’s an offer. If you don’t wanna be alone.”

Eddie’s face flits through a multitude of emotions but settles on the same easy, warm smile from earlier. “Thanks, Rich.” He squeezes his shoulder gently, Richie preening at the attention – and then he grabs the end of the towel and pulls it off. “HO!” He claps a hand to his mouth with a bark of laughter but stays quiet. Richie can see how his eyes crinkle at the edges and his shoulders are shaking.

“Oh my god, WHAT.”

He moves his hand down. “I mean, it worked but holy shit.”

He cracks up the moment Richie dashes to the nearest mirror screaming, “My hair! My beautiful hair, what did I do to you?!”

It takes Eddie a grand total of 24 hours to say yes.

* * *

Why does it only take Eddie 24 hours to say yes?

He wishes he didn’t know, that it was just a knee-jerk reaction to a question, but he knows full fucking well that isn’t true. Parties aren’t even his thing; thanks to his Mom, once he grew out of the whole ‘neighbourhood kid birthday parties’ age, that was pretty much it for him. No parties. Bad things happened at parties, things his mom couldn’t control, and there was no way in hell Eddie Kaspbrak was going to indulge in the bad things. Myra dragged him to a handful of birthdays and office parties – once there was even a wedding, where she dropped hints all night that she wouldn’t mind having a starring role in the next one – but Eddie never felt totally comfortable there. It was all a big performance, really. You have to talk to people this way, you only drink this much, you can only dance with your partner otherwise rumours will fly the next day. Handsome copywriters, roommates or groomsmen making eyes at him from across the room also never helped the whole song and dance he had to do just to keep Myra from throwing a drink over him or storming out an hour earlier than she wanted to.

But this is different. He’s single. And, well, part of him knows that the rules he sees in his head don’t belong anywhere _except_ in his head. Richie asked, so he said yes. No big deal. He’s nervous about it, like he imagines a kid at prom would be, but he’s also a little optimistic. Just a little. Just in case it’s not like all the other times.

When New Years arrives he calls Stan in a panic to help him dress, because he is first and foremost a fucking idiot who doesn’t think things through when he agrees to go to a party with a fucking _theme_. Both Stan and Bill turn up at his door, to Eddie’s surprise, sporting identical grins. Oh no. Eddie does not like that.

“Oh god, what?” he asks.

But it’s too late; they’re in his apartment, they have a bag with them and Eddie is quite possibly doomed.

An hour later sees him standing at his bedroom mirror pulling faces at his reflection. Stan’s let him borrow his black jeans that cling to his legs like a second skin (uncomfortable, feels too naked), as well as a pair of boots with a heel (what is he, going to go ride a fucking horse now?) that’s subtle but brings his height up an inch or two. Tucked in and billowing out in swathes of material is an oversized shirt that belongs to Mike but Bill has stolen and helped fashion into something that cinches Eddie’s waist and cuffs at the elbows. He’s also popped the top three buttons so that there’s a flash of collarbone on show. Eddie gulps and sees his throat bob like a cork. Stan and Bill await his verdict.

“I never looked like this in the 80s,” he remarks faintly.

“What,” Bill says, “hot?”

Stan kicks him in the shin. “You’re going to a New Year’s party single,” he says, as Bill swears and clutches his leg, “so you are allowed to look hot.”

Eddie flushes. He isn’t used to being called ‘hot’. Myra called him ‘handsome’ often, the same way someone would a good oak table at a furniture store, but ‘hot’? That just isn’t an adjective Eddie would use to describe himself, ever. His uncertainty clearly shows because Stan gets up, cups his face in his hands and says, whilst staring deep into his eyes, “Eddie Kaspbrak. Repeat after me. ‘I am hot’.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Eddie sighs. “I’m hot,” he says, resigned.

Stan sighs too. “Guess that’ll have to do.” He releases him and retreats to where he’s packing up his things. “Just follow Richie’s lead. From what I hear he’s got a good track record.”

Something wakes up in Eddie, something that catches fire and starts to crackle and spit. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

There’s enough of a bite to his words to make Stan turn around. He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh? We’re doing this now?”

“Doing what?” The same bite. Eddie knows he’s being stupid, but he just can’t help himself.

Stan groans. “Oh man, I do not have the time for this, I have to look like Liz Taylor in an hour.”

Bill steps in. “He just m-means Richie’s been around,” he explains, which really doesn’t fucking help Eddie’s sudden anger. Bill hands him his watch from his bedside table as a peace offering. “S-so he can, you know, show you how it’s d-d-d-”

“Done,” Stan supplies, zipping up his bag as well as putting Bill out of his misery. “So you can go get yourself whatever you want. Please, for the love of everything, Eddie, get laid. Start the year like you mean to go on.” He pauses. “That’s my plan anyway. Why else would I go for Liz Taylor?”

“My plan t-too,” Bill chips in.

“You don’t count, you’re dating,” Stan replies.

“It c-counts!”

Eddie sees the way his flush travels down his chest. “O-oh.” Yeah. Obviously that’s what they meant, that Richie’s been around the block before so he can help him out. Funny. He hadn’t been thinking about that at all; just the idea of spending New Years with his (frankly) third best friend is enough to be excited for. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

Stan and Bill share a look Eddie really doesn’t appreciate, and Stan says, “Remember I put eyeliner on you, don’t touch your face.”

Eddie will find it pretty fucking hard to forget, since they had to pin him down to do it. “Sure, sure. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He follows them to his door. Bill offered to look after Pygmalion whilst Eddie’s out, since he and Mike are staying in for New Years and Mike loves dogs, so he scoops up an overnight bag Eddie packed for him as Stan tucks a grouchy and struggling Pygmalion under his arm. Eddie sincerely wishes them luck.

He actually almost lets them go before one thought, niggling in the back of his mind, becomes too loud to bear. “Wait.”

They pause.

“Does… does this have to be bright pink?” He gestures at the huge shirt.

Stan and Bill conduct a synchronised eye-roll of their own making, and tell him to have a good night. Eddie glares at their retreating backs, even as they turn the corner. Fine. He deserves that.

Richie told him he has to help set up (because apparently he’s more than just a casual acquaintance of actual fashion designer Beverly Marsh) so Eddie gets the extortionate cab to the hotel alone. He asked Richie to meet him in the foyer since he knows he’ll bail if he has to walk into a crowded place alone, and he hopes he’ll keep his promise.

The hotel is huge and old, the kind of place that sweats money from the ground up; as the cab pulls away, Eddie just stands right outside and takes a stabilising breath. Okay. He’s okay. It’s gonna be fine. He checks his watch, knows Richie’s most likely in the foyer right now waiting for him – but that still doesn’t get his feet moving.

He fumbles a cigarette out of the pocket of his jacket and lights up, the end glowing like a small beacon in the endless ocean of the city. _One more breath. One more drag. Come on, you can do this._

He spots a gaggle of brightly dressed people headed straight for him, taking up the whole sidewalk. By the looks of them, they could be invited to the party. Then again, they might not. He takes another drag and keeps his eyes down just in case.

“What’s the matter hon’, you waiting on someone?”

He jumps. Shit, he’s being spoken to. The guy asking is younger and soft spoken, his skin dark and powdered with a fine silver-green glitter across his eyes. He looks a little startled at Eddie’s reaction, and when he doesn’t say anything he adds, “Take it easy, I don’t bite,” with a tentative laugh. Eddie knows that laugh. It’s the, ‘ _I’m not too sure what your angle is so I’ll make a joke please don’t beat me up’_ laugh.

He scrambles to rectify it. “Oh, no, sorry I uh well…” He gives up and ends up gesturing to his cigarette. “I’m just-”

The guy waves his stumbling attempt at speech away loosely. “Hey, hey, I get it,” he says, his voice softening with understanding. “It’s scary to walk in alone, huh?”

Eddie stares at him, dumbfounded. “Uh.”

“C’mon, follow us. Name’s Ramone, sugar. Like the band.” He winks and links arms with him, and Eddie has no choice but to be pulled in through the main doors of the hotel.

The inside of the hotel is just as extravagant and rich as the outside; Eddie’s used to nice hotels and fancy buildings from jobs where interviewing businessmen and hopeful politicians are concerned, but he’s never stepped into one without a notebook in his hand. There’s a bar near the check-in desk, all red leather and gold detailing like it’s straight out of a mobster movie, and Eddie immediately feels the need to stand taller, puff out his chest, look down his nose a little.

A man appears out of thin air ready to take his jacket, which nearly sends Eddie through the nearest window with how tightly wound he is. Ramone steps forward with a brilliant smile and high fives the doorman with gusto before stepping out of a, frankly, outrageously purple leopard print coat. When the doorman eyes Eddie’s definitively quieter black jacket, he reluctantly shucks it off with a word of thanks and it’s whisked away to some hidden cloakroom. He mourns its loss.

“That,” Ramone says, poking his shirt, “is incredible. God, I could just eat you.”

Eddie offers him a smile. “You don’t have to be nice. I could stop traffic.”

Ramone laughs, slinging an arm back around his shoulders. “Why, sure you could! But that shirt’s only one of the reasons.” Another wink. Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. It’s a terrible line, really shitty, but it’s nice not to have to duck for cover immediately after hearing it.

It’s then that he spots Richie.

He’s sat at the bar, leg bouncing up and down nervously in his ripped jeans Eddie swears are the genuine article from all those years ago. The denim jacket definitely is, with its silly string paint patterned all over his back. His blue hair stands out the way it did at the demonstration too, bubblegum bright and just as thick as it had been back then. For a brief moment, Eddie wonders if he really has gone back in time. Maybe he’s been given a second shot – but at what, he can’t be sure.

Richie’s eyes land on him and they immediately snap wide behind his thick framed glasses. Eddie really doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

His entourage follow his gaze. “Ooh, found your friend?” Ramone asks. “He’s cute.”

“Oh jesus, don’t tell _him_ that or he won’t be able to fit his big fucking head through the door,” Eddie snorts. “But yeah. That’s him.”

Ramone purses his lips in thought but releases him. “Well, have fun. Come find us later if you wanna dance, sugar! I’ll keep my card open!” He blows him a kiss as they drift all drift away into whichever room that’s hired for this thing.

Eddie waves them off, feeling ridiculous, and makes his way over to Richie, since he clearly has no intention of getting up soon. In fact, Richie looks like he’s been hit over the head by something heavy. When Eddie gets close, Richie at least makes a conscious effort to close his mouth. Huh, maybe Stan was right. Maybe he _is_ hot.

“You shaved your beard,” Eddie greets him.

Richie stands from his stool like a kid being called up by a teacher, and _wow_ he’s still just looking. His eyes seem hungry. Eddie debates on throwing a drink in his face, but then:

“I shaved my beard,” Richie bleats back at him, robotic and strange.

“Oh, so it _does_ speak.” Eddie chews on his lip despite himself. “Do I really look that much of an idiot?”

Richie shuts his eyes, shakes himself, opens them. “No, sorry, uh, we can’t do anything until we address a fundamental fact here.”

“Which is?”

“You’re not wearing a suit.”

“Oh.” Eddie looks down at himself. “Would you look at that.” He raises a brow. “Well fucking spotted, dick.”

“No, shit, I mean…” Richie gestures to him viciously. “The first time I see you out of a suit and you look like _this._ ”

Eddie blinks. God, is this really the first time he’s not worn a suit in front of Richie? Granted, he nearly always comes from the office, or a meeting or… oh god he really _hasn’t_ worn anything else. He shuffles awkwardly, shooting Richie what he hopes is a glare. “Hey, if you don’t think this shit is appropriate after I walked in with fuckin’ Purple Rain over there then I can go home and cha-”

“No!” Richie almost shouts it. “No, no, are you crazy, no.” Richie grabs him by the arms and yet keeps him back, holds him at an arm’s length like he doesn’t trust himself to get closer. Eddie resists, but Richie is strong when he wants to be. Eddie stills. Richie looks so much younger without a beard, with an actual face on show; Eddie can actually follow the lines that make up his face, from the block cut of his jaw to the almost delicate point of his chin. It gives Eddie the insane urge to inflict property damage.

“You’re,” and then Richie pauses, swallows painfully, “You look kind of amazing.”

Eddie raises a brow. “O…kay?”

“Fuck, they’re all gonna love you in there,” Richie mutters.

“Okay, am I going to a party or joining a cult? Because you’re not filling me with fucking confidence, and before you say anything a pyramid scheme _is_ a cult we’ve been through this-”

Richie breaks into an almost startled laugh and releases him, whatever spell was on him now broken. “Sorry man, it’s been a long day.” He grins. “You look good. Really good. Very 80s.”

“Oh.” Eddie relaxes. This is safer. This is better. The urge to maim sinks. “Good. You look like the day I saw you at the demonstration.” 

Richie’s smile is uncertain, maybe even shy. “Oh, psh, naw. Ain’t that kid anymore, man. I’m all grown up. But enough about me, let’s go have fun.” He slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and steers him towards the doors Eddie’s new friends disappeared behind before. “You gotta meet Bev, she won’t stop asking about you. Pretty sure she thinks you’re imaginary.”

Eddie peers up at him. “You talk about me with Beverly fucking Marsh?”

Richie gives him a toothy grin. “Oh, yeah. She will _love_ you.”

Eddie isn’t quite sure how he feels about that, but he doesn’t have the time to wonder. Richie pushes open one of the doors and they’re hit head on with the boom of music and chatter.

“Welcome to your first Marsh-Hanscom party,” Richie says in his ear, “brace yourself.”

Eddie can’t see much at first; the room is dark except for a handful of strobe lights, but he knows there are a lot of people here. He catches himself leaning closer to Richie, blinking as his eyes adjust. Once they do he sees a huge room filled with a menagerie of people, all colours and glitter and noise. He remembers back when he was reporting at the demonstration, when he’d felt like the kid left on the bleachers whilst the others got to play, and that same feeling comes over him again. The feeling that asks ‘ _do you really belong here? Do you? Are you enough?’_ that always stopped him from going to gay bars, from meeting other guys – until Stan, obviously.

There’s hints that they aren’t just gate-crashing this place; waiting staff weave between the crowd with glasses and appetisers balanced delicately on silver trays, and there’s a bartender making cocktails in the bar off to the side. It has the sense of a room that was once organised and has since given up to chaos, if the huge space in the centre of the room that’s being used as a dancefloor is anything to go by.

Eddie’s stomach swoops at the sight of it, of all of it, and he has to fight the urge to take a few steps back into the world he knows is real. He knows Richie can feel the way he stiffens at the sight of it all, as the arm vanishes from his shoulders. “Hey bud, you hanging in there?”

Eddie nods sharply. He can see guys dancing together, sees them with their arms around one another and nestling into chests, and he swallows a little dryly. Something childish in him thinks of how unfair it is, how this shit has been happening around him and he’s somehow missed the memo – just because he wasn’t fucking brave enough. “Just… a lot of people,” he answers tightly.

Richie gets it. He offers a hand to him and Eddie just stares at it like he’s never seen one before. Richie laughs patiently and takes his hand anyway. The last time he held Richie’s hand like this was back in the rental car two months ago, full of an anger that made him want to punch through the front screen. He doesn’t want to break anything this time, but it does manage to successfully trigger his fight or flight response. He tenses, tries to pull away. Richie’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. He gives him the option. Eddie finds he doesn’t want him to let go _exactly_ , he just needs a fucking minute. Richie steps closer to say, “Special Tozier Promotion, today only. I won’t let go unless you want me to.”

Eddie looks down at their hands, how they don’t fit together right; Richie’s knuckles graze against his, he can’t get his fingers between Richie’s close enough and it’s all a heavy-handed sort of fumble. He frowns and looks back to Richie sceptically. “This part of the New Years Date package you trying to sell me?”

Richie snorts. “Oh baby, you already got the package, no refunds or returns,” he says without missing a beat. “But believe me, if a Hugh Grant lookalike turns up you are getting dropped like yesterday’s hot dog.”

“Good to know. Watching you crash and burn from the sidelines is enough compensation.”

“Eds, you wound me so. You’ve not even seen my moves.”

“Don’t need to.”

Richie flashes a grin, squeezes his hand and leads him through the crowds. “Come on, our lady awaits.”

Eddie is dragged through the sea of people. He holds onto Richie’s hand tight to stop himself being bounced off bodies like a pinball. The masses do appear to part for Richie like they know him – of course they do, he helped set this whole thing up – but Eddie’s surprised to see how friendly they are.

They grasp Richie’s shoulder, ruffle his hair and laugh at its colour, lean in to thank him for helping out with this cause or that party. This is Richie in his element, Eddie realises. He’s loose, relaxed, the eyes behind his glasses creased from smiling or laughing and glittering with the memory of it too. A man dressed as Boy George actually plants a sloppy kiss on Richie’s cheek in greeting and calls him ‘darling’. Eddie presses himself closer, everything burning. Eyes pass over him like he isn’t there, and he’s okay with that. It’s sort of fascinating to watch Richie work.

Eventually Richie pulls him over to an unassuming table framed by a couple that Eddie can only describe as the most ridiculously beautiful people he’s ever seen. They’re like fucking royalty. The man is broad and fills out his suit so insanely well, what the _fuck_ , and the woman is smaller than he expected but has a smile that immediately makes Eddie feel welcome. The dark green dress she’s wearing shimmers like liquid when she moves around the table to get to them, and cuts a sharp contrast against her fiery hair. _That’s Beverly Marsh,_ his mind screams unhelpfully at him, but he knows her; he recognises her from Myra’s magazines he’d flicked through before. The man is more of a mystery – a handsome, god-like mystery – but he assumes it’s the illusive ‘Hanscom’.

“There you are!” Beverly Marsh sings, nearly beheading a passing waiter with the arm she thrusts out in glee. “Richie, I thought we’d lost you for good!” And then she reels Richie in and hugs him. Tight. Like friends do. Richie’s really been playing down how well he knows a literal fashion designer, but then again he plays down a lot of stuff about him.

“I was gone twenty minutes!” Richie laughs into her shoulder, and as they pull away he squeezes Eddie’s hand again. Because, oh yeah, he’s still. Holding. It. “This is Eddie!” he cries, stepping to one side to put him in full fucking view, because he is predominantly an asshole.

Eddie feels a little like he’s being presented to the class, a craft project of Richie’s to be cooed and looked over. Richie at least presents him with a flourish like he’s proud of him, and not like he’s a last minute, unfinished decision. It means Eddie only marginally withers under the attention.

Thankfully, Beverly is a merciful kind of god. She smiles like he’s the best thing she’s ever seen and moves aside to make room for them at the table. “Are you sure? Did you snatch the best-looking guy off the street just to prove a point?”

Eddie scoffs at this. She’s being nice, but he long ago realised how allergic he is to that. “Pretty slim selection.”

“No, seriously,” she leans closer, “how much is he paying you? I have to tell you that if he’s promised you more than five dollars and a blowjob, he’s a liar.”

“Damn, he promised ten.”

“Bennnn,” Richie whines, “I’m being bullied by your wife and my date!”

Eddie chooses to fucking ignore that one.

“You didn’t let me put New Kids On The Block on the DJ set,” the man says mildly, “so bite me, Tozier, the lady does what she wants.”

Beverly’s smile widens. “Good to know you’re actually real and have a good sense of humour, Eddie. Nice to finally meet you.”

Eddie glances at Richie for an answer to that one. _Finally?_

Richie is maddeningly smooth about it, shrugging loose as he manoeuvres them both closer. “Yeah, you dick, I believe you owe your husband ten bucks.”

The man – Ben – beams at his wife, who rolls her eyes and begrudgingly hands him a crisp note form her purse. “For once, my belief in you pays off,” he says.

Richie’s laugh vibrates through Eddie’s bones now they’re so close together. “Better believe me more, Benny boy! Eddie and I go way back.”

“Yeah, to my fucking horror,” Eddie retorts, which cracks the smile on Beverly’s face into a laugh. “He just can’t leave me alone. I didn’t even feed him in my house, he just keeps coming back every time he hears me open a can of tuna.”

“I’m sorry, am I a _cat_ in this scenario?”

“You’re not a dog.”

“Touché.”

“You’re funny!” Beverly says, delighted. “He never said you were funny!”

Richie pats him on the shoulder and, after a final squeeze, lets go of his hand. “Now you got ‘em warmed up, Bette Davis, I’ll get some drinks in whilst you tell ‘em how much I light up your life.”

Eddie answers by sticking his leg out and almost tripping Richie up on his way to the bar. “Bitch!” Richie flings back at him, halfway to a laugh.

“Takes one to know one,” he answers childishly. He gets a swell of pride at the grin he gets as payment. The confidence, small and contained, falters when he watches Richie’s retreating back and realises he’s alone with two of his friends. “So, uh, you want proper introductions or-?”

Ben smiles. “Think you’ve introduced yourself enough.”

“What’s with the Bette Davis?” Beverly asks.

Eddie huffs. “He’s called me that since we first met. Something about my eyes or some shit.” He pauses. “Like the song, I guess.”

“Ah. I get it.” Beverly nods sagely. “Bette Davis was quite a hardass in her day, too. Wouldn’t take shit from anybody.”

Eddie considers this for a moment. Is that how Richie sees him? Fuck, he wishes he could be that person. His hand itches with the urge to grab a cigarette, but he holds it back. “Guess I was a pretty intense college grad for him to say that, then.”

This perks Ben’s interest. He leans over Beverly’s head so he can be heard over the music, and Eddie marvels at how soft-spoken he remains. “You knew Richie since college?”

“Not exactly. We drove up from Maine together once we graduated to save on gas.” He turns to look for Richie, lost in the technicolour sea of partygoers. “And we kept bumping into each other after that. We’ve been friends for… shit, not even a year solidly. Feels like longer.” He turns back to them. “What about you, how long have you been blessed with Richie Tozier?”

Since New York, it turns out. Beverly and Ben take it in turns to tell him how they were all in the same squalid apartment block in their early 20s and kept in touch through the years. They had met Connor, had been friends with him, seen the fallout from a distance. They’ve been with Richie through a lot, and Eddie is suddenly struck with the snarling monster envy creates in his gut.

He wants to have been there with him back then, the Richie Dark Ages, enduring the damp spots and rats the size of small dogs – but also the time they lit candles around the apartment when the electric blew and ate nothing but bread and cheese and drank bad wine just to call themselves ‘bohemian’ instead of ‘broke as fuck 20-somethings’. It’s a life he missed out on, and it makes that monster in him angry. He had Myra, and look where _that_ got him.

But he smiles and nods along, fascinated at the tidbits of Richie’s life he’s not been privy to before. By the time Richie gets back, Eddie has plenty of trivia to go wild at. “You ate pizza off the GROUND!?” he squawks when the glasses are set down, and the look of utter betrayal Richie shoots a cackling Beverly is priceless.

Eddie doesn’t know the name of the drink Richie got for him but it’s got a bite of whiskey and goes down pretty smooth, so he’s here for it. Beverly and Richie delve into a discussion that sounds like it was put on pause when he went to find Eddie, but he just sits back and listens the way he did before. They’re talking about rallies and protests (he finds out quickly that Beverly is bisexual, which is news to him) and it’s kind of out of his area. Still, it’s nice to hear them talk about it; anarchy is something chaotic and rough around the edges, but it sure as hell makes a good story. At one point he asks if Beverly wants to swap places, since the music is loud and she’s really getting into the conversation, but she just laughs and says, “No way, Eddie, I wouldn’t separate Richie from his emotional support.”

Eddie gives Richie a questioning look, which only ends in Richie downing his drink and going to order them more. Eddie hasn’t finished his, but he gets another one put in front of him anyway. He wonders if Richie is trying to get him drunk, and then decides he doesn’t care. It’s New Years, for fuck’s sake, he is getting pissed.

He’s three of the unknown cocktails in when they’re joined by a small gaggle of girls that Ben affectionately dubs, ‘Richie’s Posse’. Eddie blinks. Part of him assumed that it wasn’t true when Richie told him he only had female friends. Apparently he assumed wrong. Richie lights up when he sees them heading their way and moves from Eddie’s side to be engulfed by them all, screaming and hugging like they’re teenagers. Maybe it’s the drink talking, but that same childish urge to be included rises up again in Eddie.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Eddie Eddie Eddie,” Richie chants once he’s released, pulling him over by his shirt, “Meet Susan, Wendy and Sandy!”

He points them all out in turn; Susan has light blonde hair and looks like she could run twenty miles and not break a sweat, Wendy is willowy and dark with large lamp-like eyes that seem to show every single emotion at once, and Sandy… well. Sandy is as tall as Richie with auburn hair and a smile that could brighten any room – and yet, Eddie’s certain she could punch him in the face and he’d say thank you. She’s also the first to actually speak to him – Wendy seems shy and Susan is more interested in complimenting Beverly’s recent Winter Collection.

“So, you’re the one,” she greets him with, which is fucking ominous to say the least. 

“Uh,” is Eddie’s excellent reply.

She raises an expertly pencilled eyebrow, a smile working its way across her mouth. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

“I…” He blinks. “Sorry?”

“It’s okay. I’ll forgive you.” She accentuates this with a light slap on Eddie’s face that actually stings. “Richie said you were cute.”

Huh. _Richie’s been saying a lot of fucking things, huh?_ Eddie thinks, but the man himself is too busy talking to Wendy about her recent crafting project to overhear them. Besides, Eddie’s a little buzzed from the alcohol – pleasantly so – so he just gives a helpless sort of shrug which makes Sandy laugh and pinch the same cheek she slapped like he’s eleven. For once, Eddie doesn’t hate it.

They all stick around the table for a while, ordering more drinks and snatching the champagne flutes that definitely don’t have champagne in them from the waiters. Eddie ends up taking some of them too, because _fuck it,_ and the buzz becomes something slower and languid. It makes _him_ slower and languid. Richie’s laughs seem louder, the room a little smaller, and everyone seems to lean into him, like he’s some kind of magnetic core they can’t help themselves from being pulled into. He finds, to his surprise, that he doesn’t mind it so much.

So he starts to lean into their spaces right back. He flops his head onto Beverly’s shoulder when he laughs, or grabs for Sandy’s arm when he’s trying to make serious conversation. And despite all that, he can feel Richie’s eyes on him. It’s not a burn, exactly – more like a soft poke, a gentle reminder that he’s looking out for him. Sometimes Eddie catches the looks, and Richie pulls a face every time just to make him scowl or flip him off. But when Eddie gives him a gentle kick under the table they’re leaning against or headbutts him in what he hopes is a friendly way, he can feel the weight of Richie’s smile on him as well as his eyes. He can feel the weight of how pleased Richie is that he’s enjoying himself. It’s a nicer feeling than the one the alcohol gives him.

When the music changes to something he recognises, there’s a resounding shriek of delight from the girls. “Come on.” Sandy says, taking her glass and downing it in one, “gotta dance to this.” It’s so serious Eddie wonders if she might actually sustain some sort of injury if she _doesn’t_ dance to it.

“She’s right,” Wendy agrees, “it’s Madonna.”

Eddie frowns. “Is this _Get Into The Groove?_ ”

“Oh _god_ yes, the man has a good ear,” Beverly nods, finishing her drink just as quick. “Richie, come on, let’s go!”

“Naw, naw, ladies, please, have mercy,” Richie tries, hands out in front of his chest with a modest smile, “I wouldn’t wanna show you up.”

“You wish, Tozier.” Sandy smirks and grabs him by the wrist. “Come show me your moves.”

Richie immediately looks to Eddie, and Eddie isn’t sure if he wants an out or not. Well, he sure as fuck isn’t giving him one. “What if _I_ wanna see your moves?”

Richie looks blank, and Eddie is just drunk enough to bat his eyelashes – his fucking eyelashes, the ones Stan says are lost on a man who doesn’t do drag – and say, as deadpan as he can manage with four cocktails and multiple unnameable champagne knock-offs in him, “I am your date, _Richard_. And as your date I get to see your moves.”

This causes a roar of approval from the girls, and Richie has no choice. “You are gonna regret asking to see my moves, Bette Davis!” he calls as Sue and Beverly drag him to the dancefloor, one on each arm. “They are a powerful aphrodisiac!”

“Oh, I’m _trembling_.” Eddie shouts back, his skin tingling pleasantly when Richie blows him a kiss. “I’ll try to keep my pants on.”

“Better believe it, bayyybee.”

The girls corral Richie into a dance circle with no hope of escape, but Richie apparently needs no further encouragement. He draws Beverly close to him like he’s been waiting for a cue and they… well, Eddie isn’t sure it’s _dancing_ exactly, but there’s a lot of very orchestrated moves. A lot of hand gestures in time to the lyrics. A lot of old-fashioned spins. It’s dumb and hilarious and if Eddie remembers the rest of this night he is going to 100% keep this as blackmail fuel – but it’s also kind of adorable, if he can afford to call Richie something like _that._

“You wouldn’t believe they’ve been working on a routine all month, would you?” Ben sighs beside him. Eddie jumps. Fuck, he forgot Ben was there. “I didn’t think they’d actually do it.” It’s a fond kind of complaint, something well-worn and comfortable.

Eddie smiles, furtively ignoring Richie’s viciously beckoning hands to join them. “They always like this?”

“You have no idea,” Ben says gravely, causing a laugh to come bursting out of him unannounced. “But I guess you know that.”

Eddie pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth. “Know what?”

“What Richie’s like.” Ben’s smile is a gentle, coaxing one. “You seem pretty solid.”

“Oh.” Eddie chances another glance Richie’s way. He and Beverly are attracting attention from the other dancers with their erratic movements, but Richie has his head thrown back, eyes shut as he laughs, and something twinges deep in his chest. Hm. That’s concerning. He frowns. “I don’t know him that well. Like I said, s’only been a few months.”

Ben chuffs out a good-natured chuckle. “You’d be surprised. I think you know him plenty.” His smile sobers a little as he adds, “Richie’s not been like this since Connor.” He beams at him. “It’s nice to see him happy.”

For some reason, this makes Eddie want to hide away more than anything else. He glares into the bottom of his glass, swirling it around as he thinks. It’s not as murky as the cocktails, thank god, so it feels cleaner going down. Has Richie changed that much since he first met him? He’s not noticed. He’s still the same annoying Richie, pretty close to when he threw himself into his car at 21 – but he definitely hasn’t always been that way. And… was that because of Eddie? Did he _do_ that?

He finishes his drink and winces at the bite he’s left with. “Yeah, well. Guess Connor didn’t know what he had. His fucking loss.”

The song fades away and is replaced by something with a slightly slower beat. Beverly draws Wendy into an exaggerated tango, to the delight of the others, and Sandy steps up. She takes Beverly’s place with Richie, her arm resting on his shoulder like it’s nothing. Richie grins, says something to her that’s lost on Eddie from where he’s stood, and they both start off an impressive looking bit of footwork, swaying ever so slightly in time to the music. He’s sure they must know how hard he’s staring, but he can’t fucking help it. He’s stunned into silence by Richie Tozier, the secret dancer. Jesus. Who’d have known.

Ben follows his gaze and grins. “I don’t mind if you head on over. I’ll be there once I finish this.” He tips his glass in Eddie’s direction.

He flushes. “Uh, no, thanks. I, um, don’t dance. Have never danced.”

This apparently doesn’t matter, since the song suddenly changes to something with synth. Something 80s, and vaguely familiar. Something Eddie recognises, but can’t put his finger on-

And then Richie is practically sprinting to the table, nearly elbowing Ben in the face in the process as he clutches at Eddie. “EDDIEHOLYSHIT,” he says in a single rush. Eddie blinks. Wow, Richie really _has_ had a lot. “EddieEddieEddie listen it’s your song, dude!”

Eddie listens. And he hears the opening lines, ‘ _Her hair is hollow gold… her lips a sweet surprise…’_

Horror seeps through him. “Oh, fuck no.”

“Dance with me,” Richie says. “You have to, c’mon Bette Davis.”

“I _need_ to do nothing.”

“But Eddieeeee it’s your sooonnnggg.”

“It’s not my fucking song are you kidding me?”

Richie pouts. Amid Ben’s amused tittering, his hand snakes down and grabs Eddie’s. His thumb presses into the inside of his wrist, right on the pulse point, and when he squeezes Eddie knows he feels it jump. “Just one?”

And okay well shit he can’t just say no to that, and Richie fucking knows it. In a heartbeat he’s getting pulled over to the waiting group, the delicate bones of his wrist caught in Richie’s hand no matter how much he tries to dig his heels in. Richie keeps his grip light but also keeps moving, smooth and sure, and once their shoes hit the floor he spins around to flash him a grin. “Just one dance,” he promises again, and Eddie thinks, _fine, shit, maybe one dance can’t hurt._

“I don’t know how,” he blurts out, and _yikes_ doesn’t that make him sound like the saddest sack ever.

But Richie doesn’t drop some lukewarm joke like Eddie expects him to. He just purses his lips and says, “You know, gonna let you in on a li’l secret.” He lifts Eddie’s arm above his head. Eddie raises a brow, and Richie nods expectantly. With a sigh, Eddie follows his lead and spins around. It’s slower than when Sandy did it, but that doesn’t seem to bother Richie. “No one knows how to dance. Everyone makes shit up. See?” He gestures to Sandy and Beverly, who look like they’re trying to bash down an invisible wall between them with their fists. “Just do whatever.”

He frowns. “But-”

“Eddie.” Richie’s gaze steadies him. “You came here tonight in something that isn’t a suit. You’re drinking something that isn’t wine.” The grin comes back, but it’s gentler now. “What’s one more something you don’t usually do?”

And, fuck, Richie’s right. Can’t argue with that logic.

“Follow me, if you want,” Richie urges, and then he takes his other hand. Eddie freezes – are they gonna start waltzing across the floor, shit shit shit he isn’t ready for this – but then Richie just pulls them into him and back out, see-sawing Eddie’s arms like he’s a kid at a wedding.

Eddie can’t help the snort of laughter that comes out of him. Richie’s really trying; he really wants him to join in. He catches Sandy’s eye as he looks around for help, and she makes a very pointed glance to Richie, back to him and then rolls her hips – which doesn’t fucking help.

He looks back to Richie, back to that earnest smile of his and his gentle coaxing, and he lets his arms go boneless and floppy. He sways his head to the beat of the music. He steps in closer. And he lets go – just a little.

He’s not a good dancer. He knows he isn’t. But there’s electricity in the air, zipping between everyone on the floor and pinballing its way to him too. It fizzes along his skin, meeting up somewhere along the line with the alcohol, and it makes him bolder. He drapes an arm over Richie’s shoulder the way he saw Sandy do, draws him in and bounces gently on the balls of his heels. Richie’s smile is bigger than Eddie’s ever seen it, and at one point a large hand ends up pressed to the small of his back as they both do this sort of half-jig to the beat of Kim Carnes. Eddie hums happily with how it feels. It feels safe, secure. Like it belongs there.

_Hm. Concern slowly growing, compartmentalise that thought for later._

Over the music, Richie shouts in his ear, “I knew you had moves, Eds, I fuckin’ knew it!” which makes Eddie push him away with a snort; because, no, he fucking doesn’t. But he’s right back in there immediately, crowding into Richie’s space, making an embarrassing ‘oop!’ noise when Richie puts both hands on his waist and dips him effortlessly. Like he can’t get enough of him. And maybe he can’t.

When he comes back up Eddie smacks his arm, flustered, but he doesn’t tell him to stop. He just says, as Richie’s laughing into the side of his neck, “You better do that again and next time when I’m good and fucking ready, you asshole!”

Richie does do it again, and Eddie’s stomach swoops like it’s on a rollercoaster. It’s not a nice feeling. It’s not a bad feeling, either. 

He’s not sure how long the others have been watching but they begin to gather around them, whooping and shouting as Bette Davis Eyes fades and is replaced by something more recent and less synth-y. He lets go of Richie, but he isn’t able to bolt for the table. Sandy spins him around and flings her arms around his neck, and all hopes of escape vanish. “Come on shortstack, show me what you got,” she says.

Eddie shouts over the music, “It’s not my fault you’re statistically a giant for a woman!” which just makes her laugh. Sandy really is tall; since she’s around Richie’s height, it makes her almost a head taller than him. Not exactly his comfort zone, but… none of this is.

The last woman he danced with was Myra. Dancing with Myra was similar to Sex With Myra; it was a quick, conscious little shuffle and that was it. They’d let go and give it up as a bad idea. That means that this? It’s new terrain, especially since Sandy very clearly wants to keep going until her feet fall the fuck off. Eddie ends up following her lead and hoping he doesn’t fuck up. From the way Sandy’s smiling, he’s not doing too bad.

He keeps looking out for Richie as they dance; he sees him talking to some dark-haired guy who compliments his hair and touches his waist a little too familiarly, but then he also sees him crick his neck and yell for Ben to come join them, so it’s fine.

“You got a beeper on him or what?” Sandy asks, and he tears his gaze away.

“Shit, I’m sorry, that was so-”

She snorts. “It’s fine. Richie just asks to be stared at.”

She seems to know exactly what he feels – that weird tug like a rope between them. “Why though?” Eddie asks.

“I have no goddamn idea, my man,” Sandy answers. “One of life’s great mysteries, up there with the moon landing and the Bermuda triangle: what makes Richie Tozier so alluring?”

Eddie makes a face. “I wouldn’t say alluring is the right wo- wait did you just call the moon landing a great mystery?”

Sandy gives him a wicked smirk and slips his hands down to her hips before he has chance to talk anymore – as predicted, Eddie nearly chokes because _what the fuck what the fuck is she coming onto me is this a come on is this what they do_. His hands shoot back up, Sandy laughs and spins him around again – and he slams right back into the thick shape of Richie Tozier.

“Oof, you’re solid, why are you so solid,” Eddie complains, headbutting him in the chest. He is _not_ relieved. He’s not.

“Solid? Moi?” Richie lets out a theatrical gasp. “Eddie, my _darling,_ I am soft and squidgy.”

“Yeah, fuck off, I’m not gonna agree to that.” He prods his stomach, which is… okay, a little soft and squidgy, but as if Eddie cares about that shit. “You’re like… over-easy.”

Richie chuckles. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Eddie isn’t exactly sure. Still, he throws back his head and groans. “Uggghhhh you make being nice to you so hard.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Fine, whatever, I’m gonna… gonna get us more drinks.”

He pats Richie on the cheek and stumbles off in the direction of a bar he’s never been to. There’s not too much of a crowd, so he sort of sprawls himself across the bar and slaps his hand down to demand service. Oof, yeah, that mix of fizzing wine and spirits is kicking in now. He is definitely drunk.

The barman’s dealing with some complicated cocktail orders, so Eddie tries to study all the different kinds of bottles on the back. It’s a little difficult in the dark and under the influence, but he can pick out a couple.

“Newbie, you’re here!” a voice screeches from his left, and Eddie nearly leaps into the group next to him. It’s the guy from earlier, but somewhere along the line he’s stolen a plastic crown from someone and a yellow cape that he’s parading around. It clashes horribly with all the purple. Eddie squints. Shit, he definitely knows this guy’s fucking name but it’s on the tip of his goddamn tongue.

He bites it instead and an arm is slung around him. Oh, okay, well this is happening, a stranger is touching him. But the drink makes him a little more lenient, so he slumps into the contact – just a little. So sue him, he hasn’t had sex in months and a bit of attention under the influence is welcome. “I wondered where you disappeared to!” his companion sings, and the name comes to Eddie like a flick on the nose. _Ramone._

He brightens, happy he remembered. “I’ve been dancing,” he says, the static of the last one still rippling through him like an aftershock. “Out there, somewhere.” He gestures in the vague direction of Richie and the girls. “They played Kim Carnes,” he adds, because it’s of paramount importance that Ramone knows he only got up for Kim Carnes.

Ramone giggles and tucks a bit of Eddie’s hair behind his ear. Eddie puts a hand up to slap him away, but he takes too long; the hand just hovers there instead, uncertain of itself. “I saw you dancing, sugar. Shakin’ what the good lord gave ya.”

Eddie pulls away to give him a sceptical glare. “He didn’t give me shit.”

“You’re a great dancer,” Ramone answers, like he realises he has to be as clear as possible.

Eddie laughs in his face. Ramone has the good grace to look a bit startled. “No,” is all Eddie gets out before he leans across the bar to get the barman’s attention. The cocktails are finished with and he wants a drink _now._

“It’s tr-”

“I want BACARDI.”

Far more politely, Ramone raps his knuckles on the bar and flashes a crisp note between his fingers. The rings he wears glint under the flash of green strobe light. “And one Bacardi for the little monster,” he says, after rattling off a pretty long list of orders. A bottle appears in front of Eddie a beat later that he stares at curiously. “Your face! Adorable,” Ramone laughs. “It ain’t poison.”

Eddie takes it tentatively. “I’m getting drinks for everyone.”

“Well there’s one less for you to pay for.”

“Hm.”

“Hey.” Ramone leans in conspiratorially. “Look, I wouldn’t do this normally, but you’re clearly new to all this and I wanna help you out. Plus my friend is super into you and he’s a bit shy, bless his heart.” He nods over to an assembled group, with a mortified looking man at its centre who seems to look even more startled when he’s caught staring. Eddie blinks. Huh. He’s cute. He looks a bit like Richie, if Richie was a bit shorter, had lighter hair and looked like he wanted to sink into the floor instead of dance the macarena. Oof, Eddie doesn’t want to open _that_ door. “You came with one Mr. Tozier, right?” Ramone asks, bringing his attention back to him.

Eddie lets out a small huff. “He some kinda celebrity here? Beverly’s the one who makes the clothes, ugh, he just… just _calls people_ dude.”

Ramone leans in closer. For one moment (and in that moment, he might go into cardiac arrest) Eddie thinks Ramone’s lips are going to find his – and he probably wouldn’t stop him – but then he says, “I wouldn’t waste your time, if I were you.”

Eddie pulls back like he’s pulling out of water. “What?”

Ramone’s eyes gleam with the promise of further gossip. “Oooh, you really _are_ new. You mean you don’t know?” He sighs. “Oh dear, maybe I’ve said too much…”

“I don’t know what?” Eddie asks, falling for it completely. Ramone just smiles. “What don’t I fucking know?”

Ramone’s smile gets teeth. “That Richie Tozier is the easiest lay this side of New York.”

Eddie stares at him. Everything screeches to a halt in his brain until all he’s left with is: “Ex-fucking-scuse me?” The steel of his voice slices through the fuzz of alcohol, and suddenly Eddie’s not happy-drunk-Eddie anymore. He’s Gonna-Kill-A-Man-Kaspbrak.

Ramone doesn’t catch the warning signs. “Oh, sure, he gets with anyone who asks. Loves the closet cases the most, that one. Likes knowing he’s the first guy they get to have, guess it’s a complex. Or maybe it brings back memories.” He seems to take Eddie’s stony silence as encouragement, as he continues gleefully, “Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t think it, but he was gonna marry some radio DJ babe from Long Island, that’s what they say. Before he married a straight guy. Awkwaaard.” He laughs. “But no hard feelings, gorgeous. Feel free to play with him, but I’d leave him where you found him after. And uh, might wanna wash your hands, too.”

Any remnant of Eddie’s tingly tipsiness has vanished, eaten whole by an anger that wants to rip its way out of him, and when Ramone lifts his glass and says, “Anyway, here’s to Richie Tozier, and all who sail in him,” he snaps.

Without a word, Eddie grabs hold of Ramone’s shirt and slams him into the bar so hard his perfect teeth knock together.

“Hey hey hey, that’s enough!” the barman orders. “Don’t make me throw your asses out!”

Eddie doesn’t listen. Ramone laughs breathlessly, winded as Eddie tightens his grip. “Now _that’s_ not a reaction I’ve got before.”

Eddie slams him against the bar again. The movement scatters the others at the bar, and the barman shouts another warning – but still, he ignores him. The blood roaring in his ears drowns everything else out.

“Ow, babe,” Ramone complains. “What’s the matter? Surprised? Mad?” He purses his lips. “Mmm, kinky. You’re hotter when you’re mad.”

Eddie clenches his jaw. He doesn’t know what to say – what the fuck is he even _doing,_ why the fuck does he care what some gossip thinks of some dude he’s only really known since the summer?

But he’s not ‘some dude’. He’s Richie. And only Eddie gets to give him shit, not some fucking nobody.

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, and lets go of him. He takes his bottle and finishes it in a couple gulps. “Fuck you.” He takes Ramone’s glass from the bar and knocks it back too, keeping eye contact as he slams it back onto the darkly varnished wood. “Fuck you.”

For the briefest second, Eddie sees the lazy smile fall from Ramone’s face. Then he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man, you okay? You were gone a while.”

Richie.

It feels like such a sigh of relief, knowing he’s here with him, that Eddie literally throws himself at Richie with a force that surprises both of them. Eddie hears a soft, “oh fuck” next to his ear as Richie braces against him, his arms snaking around Eddie’s back to keep him from falling. It feels good. It feels nice. Still in Richie’s grip, he spins round to both look up at Richie and face Ramone. “Heyyyyyy Rich, there you are!”

From the strange angle he catches the pink flush from where Richie’s been dancing, and the thin line of his mouth and the furrowed eyebrows and – wait, Richie’s not smiling, that’s bad. “Eddie,” he says, his voice a little steadier. “You okay?” He stares at Ramone the whole time.

_Lie, lie, lie._ “M’just a li’l drunk,” Eddie admits, swaying in place. “M’fine. I can get you a-”

“You know what? I’m fine. Think we’ve all had enough.” Richie mouths something to the barman, and gets a glass of water handed to him. “Have some of this.”

Eddie stares at it. Then he stares at Richie. He’s swaying. If only he could stop fucking swaying. “Is it vodka?”

“Sure, bud. It’s vodka. Come on.”

Eddie willingly turns to head back to the girls, sipping a drink that tastes way more like water than vodka, when Ramone calls out, “Oh, I get it. You don’t wanna fuck him, he’s your babysitter.”

And, somehow, that does it. It’s barely even a comment at all, but it tips Eddie over the edge of the half-drunk rage precipice he’s been dangling over. So he takes a large gulp of water, spins back around and spits it out with impressive aim at the smug, smirking face.

Ramone shrieks, “what the FUCK,” Eddie shouts, “Prince called, he wants his FUCKING shirt back!” and before he realises what’s happening, he’s being lifted off the floor.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Eddie is throwing up in the hotel bathroom.

Richie stands outside the stall, leaning back against the array of ornate sinks, and listens to the melodious sound of his date for the evening emptying his guts. Jeez, this is definitely one for the books. Richie grins and chuckles at the fact that for once, it isn’t him doing the hurling. Being on the other side of the bathroom stall feels odd, like he’s floating outside of his body, but then again that could be the alcohol. He makes a mental note to get Beverly a fruit basket or something for dealing with this for the past few years.

A couple of people venture in and, upon hearing the sounds, give him both knowing and sympathetic smiles that he just returns with a gentle shrug of ‘whatchagonnado’. They go quick enough.

When the sounds of throwing up cease for longer than a few seconds, Richie rolls his eyes up to the monochrome ceiling and clears his throat. “I didn’t realise you were a bratty teen girl when you drink, Bette Davis.” Silence. He edges closer to the stall door. “This is quite the high school flashback for me, you know that?”

A rather inhuman grunt comes from Eddie’s stall.

Richie smiles, unable to help himself. “No, really. Jemima Westbrook, Homecoming circa 1981. We had a fight because I wouldn’t touch her boob and she threw up in a sink.” He sighs. “Ah, sweet memories.”

“Shut up,” Eddie groans out. “Just… shut up, Richie, please, fuck I’m gonna-” More retching, more splashing. Jesus. Richie retreats to the safety of the sinks, just in case.

He studies the slightly asymmetrical pattern on the ceiling and figures that Eddie’s easier to keep an eye on in here, at least. He had to enlist Ben’s help to drag Eddie away from the guy he’d been talking to. Richie actually picked him up and carried him away whilst Eddie alternated between singing When Doves Cry at him and demanding to be put down. Ben ran damage control with the guy, since he was pretty good at that – it’s a case of looking sad and towering over whoever it is, which does the trick most of the time when you’re Ben.

“Any reason why you’ve decided to have a nemesis?” he asks.

To his honest surprise, Eddie answers. “Because he’s bein’ a bitch,” he gurgles, voice muffled from where it is so very clearly halfway into the toilet.

“Obviously,” Richie nods. “But, uh, what was he bitching about?” Eddie doesn’t answer right away, so Richie feels he needs to help out. “Was it the party? The state of the US constitution?” He pauses. “Was it you? Did he come onto you or something?”

The very thought sends a jolt straight through his stomach because, shit, he doesn’t want Eddie scared off straight out the gate. There’s time for that later, the fuck ups and the weird shit, but he likes to think he knows Eddie well enough to say he needs to take careful steps into this – no deep diving straight away.

“No,” Eddie mumbles, “No, I mean he did hit on me-” (Richie’s nails dig into his folded arms before he even knows he’s doing it) “- but that wasn’t the reason.”

“Oh.” Richie smiles, but it doesn’t feel right. “Then what was it?”

“It’s…”

“Bud?”

“Ugh, fuck, _you,_ alright? It was you.”

Richie blinks. Something old and long-forgotten jabs at him. “Urm… You wanna… run that one by me again, slugger?”

“He was…”, spit, “ugh”, more spitting, “he was saying shit about you.” Eddie’s voice comes clearer out of the stall now. Head out of toilet bowl, Richie notes. Progress. “Lucky I didn’t knock his fucking teeth out.”

Richie shuffles his feet as that feeling comes back, nipping at his ankles. In honesty, he’s not exactly shocked someone wants to gossip about him. Patty had warned him, and he never listened. He doesn’t want to know the particulars, but the fact Eddie lost it makes him think it’s bad. He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Ah. Who have I killed this time?” he jokes weakly.

“What the fuck, come on man, don’t joke about this,” Eddie slurs, like he’s tired of hearing it. Richie’s mouth snaps shut. “You know what it’s about, fucker.”

Richie sighs. Yes. He can guess. “What can I say, Eds? I’m a floozy. A loose woman.” The frustrated growl he gets in response suggests that humour isn’t welcome right now, but fuck it this is Richie’s coping mechanism and he’s going to trot it out like he always does. “Let me guess: am I a homewrecker or a shameless slut who opens my legs for anyone? Or am I walking, talking disease?”

He digs his nails into the meat of his arm even as he says it, the physical pain reminding him that the other, internal pain is something he can handle way easier. He’s used to this shit. It’s like punching a hunk of beef and waiting for a reaction. He won’t react. He can’t. If he shows weakness, a chink in the armour, then… fuck, what would happen? He doesn’t wanna think about _that_ , jesus.

“Stop it!” Eddie snaps, suddenly sounding way more alert. It’s so sharp, in fact, that Richie jerks upright from where he started to slouch. “Would you just fuckin’ stop?! God, you’re just as bad as fuckin’ Prince.”

“I think his name was Ramone, Eds.”

“To-may-toe To-mah-toe.”

“Oh, now I _know_ you’re wasted.”

“Shhhut up or I’ll throw up on your stupid-ass hair.”

“Oof, one minute you’re defending my honour and then you’re slinging vomit. Way to give a gal mixed signals.”

Eddie makes an unintelligible noise as he moves himself around the stall, but he’s starting to sound a bit less like he’s going to throw up. “He doesn’t get to be mean to you, that’s my fucking job, asshole tried to steal my job…”

“C’mon man, what’s the big deal?” Richie says, pushing off the sink to take his first steps to the stall. “Some guy says I get down and dirty too much, so what? Like I give a shit what he thinks.”

“Well maybe _I_ give a shit, did you think about that? No, course you didn’t! Why? Because you’re a dick!” The last sentence, the words melting in together as Eddie slurs around the word ‘dick’, are shouted out at the precise moment some poor unsuspecting Bowie lookalike enters the bathroom. He stares uncertainly at Richie, who takes pity and mouths directions to the Ladies around the corner. He nods and exits as swiftly as he came as Eddie continues his tirade.

“Maybe I’m sick of people thinking you’re some sort of… of Whore of Babylon when you’re not, you’re this fucking… irritating, insane, giant mess of a man who wants to help and be nice to everyone he fucking meets except himself because for some reason you don’t think you deserve kindness and… and…” His voice trails off, and Richie can tell he’s run out of steam. There’s a sigh, and then he says, “You want me to be sorry? Alright, fine, fuck, I’ll be sorry. But if some asshole’s mean to my best friend I’m gonna kick the shit out of him, just fucking watch me, I’ll fight them.”

Richie freezes. Did. Did Eddie just use the b word like they’re kids in school? But Eddie’s drunk, he reminds himself. He’s so drunk, and so is he. But it still nestles someplace warm in his chest, the same spot that thawed when Eddie helped dye his hair. It’s been six months since he felt it like this, and it makes him smile.

“Aw, Eddie,” he mumbles, and the softness in his voice isn’t a total put-on. “C’mon, you don’t have to-”

“I’ll fight anyone,” Eddie interrupts him firmly, despite the slur in his voice. “I can take Prince. I’ll take Jackson, I’ll take Cobain, I’ll take all of them, fuckin’ pussies…”

“Easy tiger, I betcha can’t even stand up straight.”

“M’not straight.”

“Okay, sweetie. My mistake.”

There’s silence for a minute, and Richie debates on kicking the door down in case Eddie’s passed out on the floor. But then: “I ruined it,” Eddie says, his voice smaller than Richie’s ever heard it. “We were having a good time, and I had to go fight Prince.”

“Well, you didn’t _technically_ fight Prince,” Richie justifies, resting his head against the cool surface of the stall door. “We’re still having a good time. This is one of the better nights, trust me.”

“Nooo,” Eddie whines, “I got angry and I drank too much and I didn’t wear a _suit_ …”

“Oh, he’s dropping,” Richie says to no one in particular, pressing a hand to the door too. “Hey, Eds? Eddie? Look, it’s okay. You’re just a little bit drunk, man, you’re fine.” He knocks on the door. “Edmundo? Edward? Keep it together, little man, you’re doing great.”

“M’not little, m’average height.” A sniffle. Oh, fuck.

Richie knocks again. “Come outta there.”

“No.”

“C’mon.”

“Nooo.”

Richie smiles despite himself, because the various stages of drunk Eddie Kaspbrak are wild fucking rides and he may be loving every minute of them. He relishes the amount of shit that’s ramping up by the second. Oh, he will most definitely be giving it to Eddie in the days, weeks… hell, even _months_ to come.

“Hey, I bumped into that shitheel too. Y’know. Dodge Neon? Well I overheard him complaining to his buddy that he got the thing keyed. Can you believe that? People still key cars!”

Eddie groans the loudest now, for some reason, but there’s sudden give to the stall door that makes Richie step back, blinking. Eddie staggers out, still looking pale but lacking the urgency to throw up he had the last time Richie laid eyes on him. His hair is all messed up and there are black smudges around his eyes – he was wearing _eyeliner,_ oh Christ no wonder his eyes looked huge – but he’s managed to keep himself relatively neat. Of course he has.

Richie smiles encouragingly at him and approaches as if he’s a wild animal prone to biting. You can never be too careful, after all, and Richie wouldn’t be in the least surprised if it happened. “Hey, there’s my main man.” He pauses. “How you feeling?”

“Laundromat,” is Eddie’s nonsensical reply, but Richie gets it. He sniffs and crosses the bathroom to splash his face in the sink, and when he’s done he hangs his head with a soft, “fuck,” that strikes right to Richie’s core in sympathy. He grips the sides of the sink so tight his hands shake. It could be through nerves, too – or that he’s brought up so much so quick.

Richie bites his lip. He decides to take a calculated risk and moves to stand beside Eddie. He doesn’t put his hand between his shoulder blades and rub like he wants to, in case Eddie swats him away, but he hopes that _want_ stretches out strong enough to at least soothe something in Eddie’s psyche. He clears his throat. “For the record,” he begins, focusing on those shaking hands, “No one’s stuck up for me the way you do. Like, ever.” He lets out a weak laugh. “I mean, look at you. You’re wasted and you’re threatening the lead singer of Nirvana with a beating, despite the fact he’s already dead. And you don’t need to, and I dunno what the fuck I’ve done to get this, but I… uh. I appreciate it. So. Thanks.”

Eddie lifts his head up to stare at him, and Richie actually stops breathing. He’s experienced something like this before. A snapshot of a day, an hour, a minute that stays wedged in his mind no matter what else happens later on. He’s got a handful already, a small collection of Big Moments that are poignant and heartfelt and terrible. They’re possibly moments he’s going to look back on when he dies.

And apparently Eddie Kaspbrak staring at him in a hotel bathroom with half an hour to go before 1996 becomes 1997 is one of those Moments.

There’s something fierce behind the slowly lifting veil of alcohol, but it’s a different kind of fierce than Richie’s used to seeing in Eddie. This is almost physical – he’s not sure if he should be standing so close.

Then Eddie opens his mouth and says, without blinking, “Did you just say Kurt Cobain is fucking dead?”

* * *

It takes Richie almost fifteen minutes to get Eddie out of the bathroom after that. He swears Eddie nearly cries when he confirms that yes, Kurt Cobain is dead and has been for two years. He then takes a pack of mints out his back pocket and knocks them back like pills before swilling his mouth out with tap water and taking even more. Richie has no idea where he got them from, and when he asks Eddie he just gets a blank look that tells him more than he needs to know. Sucks to be the guy who got pickpocketed for some fucking Trebors, he guesses. They’re definitely mints, too; Eddie checked the packet multiple times like he was worried they would miraculously change to poppers in his hand if he didn’t.

So when they get out and re-join the others, Eddie seems happier. And less likely to barf, which is a bonus. Beverly lets out a cry of delight and reels Eddie into a hug like he’s a long-lost friend as Richie turns to Ben. They don’t talk, but Ben’s reassuring smile is enough to settle him. Okay. No more drama. Thank fuck. He doesn’t want or need a full-on fight on their hands right now, even if Eddie’s left his fighting spirit in the cistern of the hotel bathroom.

“You were gone so long!” Beverly sings into Eddie’s shoulder as they sway back and forth together.

“I threw up!” Eddie shouts back, delighted. “But Richie took care o’ me. Makesa fuckin’ change.”

Richie snorts indignantly. “Excuse me, I always take care of you.”

“Prove it.”

He laughs and ruffles Eddie’s hair amid his protests, finding a strange sense of pride blooming in him. Because, fuck yeah, he took care of Eddie. He kept him safe and made him feel better, and that’s fucking great.

And just like that, the music changes. Richie wasn’t expecting it so soon, but the beat slows and becomes full of strings and slow guitar. Beverly practically drops Eddie and flings her arms around Ben, mumbling something about this being, “a song for couples sorry Eddie,” which leaves the Eddie in question a little dazed. He recovers quickly and mutters, “Fine, fine, go dance with your stupid-hot husband, I need a breather.”

Richie’s reached the slow dance part of an evening so many times. With Connor never turning up to these parties and having a string of bad so-called ‘boyfriends’ before that, Richie always sticks around with the posse that is Sandy, Sue and Wendy. He slow dances with Sandy mostly, and when he seeks her out tonight she’s there like a shadow at his side. She takes his hand like she always does, she steps in close – but before they start to move she murmurs, “I think you and I both know who should be dancing with you.”

When her gaze travels over to where Eddie’s removed himself, a table with a large glass of water between him and the group, Richie’s stomach does dumb high school flip flops. He frowns. The hell is with that?

“Sands,” he pleads, “it’s not like that-” _can’t_ be like that, “- we’re just… he’s-”

“Whatever he is,” Sandy says, her eyes knowing, “he’s just a kid who wants a final dance at prom. You gonna give him that, Tozier?”

“I-” Richie looks at him, drunk and a little clumsy, and remembers this isn’t the right kind of reality. In two hours’ time the lights will come up, they’ll finish their drinks and they’ll grab their coats. The real world outside of a party and alcohol will carry on – and what the fuck happens then?

He shakes his head and she purses her lips, disappointed. “Hmm. Interesting. Never had you down as a coward.”

“Aw, c’mon Sandy-” he starts, but she pushes back with a soft scowl – softened, clearly, from the gin and tonic she’s been necking for the past hour with startling speed.

She hollers, “WENDY,” over her shoulder, and like magic the very woman appears. Her pace is a little wobbly and she’s way more relaxed than she was at the start of the night; so much so that she drapes herself over Sandy’s back with a breezy, “Heyy, what’s goin’ on?” so she looks like a talkative, glittery blanket.

“Where’s Sue?” Sandy asks.

“Off with some schmuck writer,” Wendy sighs. “Wha’ issit with her and writers, huh?”

“Truly a mystery,” Sandy replies dryly. “Alright, you’ll do.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You fancy getting our new friend out here?”

Wendy immediately looks to Eddie, who is taking in water and mints at a steady pace. “You mean Bette Davis?” she asks innocently, her eyes lamp-large. The nickname sounds weird coming out of her mouth, but Richie says nothing. He doesn’t wanna give Sandy the ammunition for whatever scheme she’s planning. She raises a brow. “If you don’t go get him, Wends, I will and you can dance with Richie.”

At the same time, Richie says, “Hey!” Wendy says, “Noo, noo, I’ll go get him, I like him and he’s pretty and he’ll make Jack jealous.”

Richie frowns. “Your abusive ex-husband Jack?”

“Mmhmm.”

He pauses. “Didn’t he, uh-?”

“Ssh, w’s never proven,” Wendy mutters, which is mildly concerning, and wobbles over to Eddie’s table without any further encouragement.

Sandy then takes Richie’s hands and winds them around her waist. “See? Snooze you lose, Tozier.”

Richie scoffs. “If you think Eddie’s gonna get up and dance with Wendy, you’re – oh holy shit he’s getting up.” He blinks at the sight of Eddie taking Wendy’s outstretched hand, who is giggling like a schoolgirl, and leads her back to the floor. “Well, fuck me I guess.”

Sandy smiles and taps him on the nose playfully. “That’s what you get for not asking your party date to dance when you should’ve.”

“It’s not _that_ sorta date,” Richie complains, though he knows it falls on deaf ears as they start moving. The beauty of the slow dance is that very little skill or effort is required; he can just shift from foot to foot if he wants, Sandy doesn’t mind, so they can keep talking. “It’s a joke.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

Richie frowns and looks over her shoulder at where Eddie spins Wendy in delicately, her dress fluttering up around her like bird’s wings. As she settles in place his hand drifts to the small of her back, fingers splayed out wide like he’s worried he won’t hold her properly and she’ll shatter into a million pieces. Richie swallows dryly. God, what is wrong with him? He catches Sandy smirking at him and his frown deepens. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“We’re pretty drunk.”

“So you keep saying.” Her thumb tickles the back of his neck when she strokes a spot there, grounding him and making him shiver. “Stop watching them, creep. They’re both single, let ‘em have some fun.”

Richie grins. “That mean we can have fun too?”

Sandy uses her nails on his neck just so he brings up his shoulders with a titter. “You had your shot, buster. And since we’re both rather tragically gay let’s just… not and say we did, mm?”

“Sounds like a plan. Knew you only wanted me to get to Pats, she is a very classy lady.”

“Damn, my evil plan is foiled.”

Richie laughs and spins them around together, and soon they’re dancing cheek to cheek, Sandy humming the tune to the song in his ear. It’s a good feeling, being enfolded in someone’s arms again – it’s been a while, this sort of contact, and Richie chases it in case he never gets it again. Who knows – maybe he won’t. Who’s to say, really? But he’s fine. He’s. _Fine._ He tightens his grip on Sandy and lets his eyes slide shut, imagining. He thinks of broader shoulders coated in a crisp white suit, a well-formed smile and a voice telling him, “ _We did it, Lover. You and me_. _We goddamn did it._ ”

Richie’s eyes flash open. Oh _hell_ no, he’s not re-living that shit here, no way.

He feels someone else watching him and as he meets that gaze he’s not altogether surprised to see it’s Eddie at the end of it. Wendy is curled around him lazily, head lolling onto his shoulder, and Eddie keeps holding her there, hand sure and steady on her back. For the first time since he met him, Eddie looks the safe sort of person; he looks like he’ll take a cab with Wendy to her place to make sure she’s not short-changed, tuck her into bed and leave some water on her bedside table before writing a note and leaving her to it. But he wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t even go in her place without a sober invite. Richie’s not sure how he knows that, exactly – he just does.

Eddie’s eyes fall away once he’s noticed, a muscle working in his jaw as he glares at the ground, but then he looks again, the drag of his gaze from floor to Richie slow as treacle. This time, he doesn’t look away. Neither does Richie. His stomach gives an unpleasant jolt.

He wonders if this is how Eddie used to dance with Myra, if he practiced endlessly so he wouldn’t step on her feet or the hem of her dress. Because Eddie moves carefully when he dances; even if he doesn’t put a foot wrong it feels like it took a lot to get to that point. And that hand, why is that hand driving Richie so crazy? Fucking jesus, he needs to get out more. And Eddie’s still watching him, still not letting Richie out his fucking sight. Is he scared of being left behind or something? Who does he think Richie is? It might have started out curious or concerned, but that sure as fuck isn’t what it is now. It’s not how it sometimes is, when it bores right into Richie’s soul. It’s deeper, somehow, sinking into his actual fucking marrow – but softly. It’s not piercing, the look, or demanding; it’s gentle, slipping through and making a home right there in Richie’s chest cavity.

And isn’t _that_ the scariest fucking thing to feel.

Richie gulps and turns his face into the arch of Sandy’s neck, the smell of her perfume assaulting his nose with something musky and smoky. He wishes it was the fresh bite of aftershave, or the smell of mint. Sandy makes a questioning noise at his movement, murmuring a soft, “You okay?”

And the simple answer is that no, Richie isn’t okay, because Eddie just pulled Wendy closer to him and ran that steadying hand up her back, the glitter on the dress rippling like the surface of the ocean at night, and he knows that Eddie’s telling him that he wants to be doing those things to somebody else right now and that somebody might just be him and what the fucking fuck is he meant to do with that information?

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like dancing.

He pulls away and smiles apologetically. “Raincheck?”

Sandy blinks at him. “Not feeling it tonight, huh?” He smiles again. She gets it. “Don’t worry about me. Plenty of lonely girls out here who wouldn’t pass up a dance with the likes of me.” She winks, and Richie takes this as permission to slip away.

He gets a water from the bar and stands watching all the couples on the floor. He especially looks at Beverly and Ben, wrapped up in one another so entirely that they might as well be the only people in the room. They’ve always been that way, even when he first met them and they weren’t together. They just have this way of seeing each other that no one else has. Richie’s past the point of being annoyed about it – he’s actually a little jealous. God, he fucking wishes for something like they have.

His eyes drift, and he frowns. No pink shirt in sight. No Wendy, either. The thought occurs to him that they could have disappeared into a dark corner, and doesn’t like the way it sours his stomach, but then a tap on the shoulder makes him jolt.

“Hofuck!”

“Needed a break, Fred Astaire?”

And there’s Eddie, brandishing a glass of water in his face. Despite already having one, Richie takes it with a smile just because Eddie got it for him. He looks a touch more sober than he did before, but there’s a slight haze still hanging over his eyes. When he steps closer, he presses against Richie’s body as though reminding himself he exists. Richie pretends not to notice. His college self, trapped deep inside, wails.

“What about you?” he asks, gesturing to the floor. “Where’s Wendy, bro?” God, he sounds like one of the frat boys he’d suck dick for back in college, what the fuck is happening right now.

Eddie makes a vague motion towards the door. “Wanted to call the sitter.” He pauses. “Didn’t know she had a kid.”

“You didn’t know Wendy before tonight,” Richie points out. “But yeah, Danny’s a sweetheart. Why, that a dealbreaker?”

“What?”

“That she got a kid.”

“I don- oh.” Eddie shakes his head. “No, no, not a dealbreaker. Wouldn’t date her though. She’s nice, but our kid would look like an owl.” Richie snorts up some of his water and promptly chokes. As he recovers, Eddie says, “Like her though. Like all your friends. They’re good people.” He smiles dazedly. “Like you.”

Richie swallows down the remaining water a bit too harshly. “Aw, shucks,” he says weakly. “You’re too kind, Eds.”

“Mmmnot my name.” But he’s still smiling, and Richie considers. _Wanna dance in the new year together, Eddie Kaspbrak? Just two friends, pressed cheek to cheek, thinking about the shitstorm ’96 gave us and hoping that ’97 brings a better deal?_ Richie thinks he’s drunk enough to give it a shot. Because the hell with reality: time to seize.

“Eddie?”

Eddie glances at him, concern knotting his brow. Because, yes, that question came out sounding like he’s going to lay down the law of the universe instead of ask his friend to dance. God, Richie’s an idiot. “What is it?” he asks, like he always will.

That’s when the music fades out and the DJ gets on the mic to announce there’s only 20 seconds left until new year – just when Richie is about to open his mouth. Eddie’s eyes dart to the DJ, to everyone starting up the chanting countdown, but then they come back. He’s waiting for Richie.

He loses it. He leans in and shouts, “You wanna get some air?” like the big ol’ coward that he is. Eddie nods, and so Richie goes ahead and takes his hand to lead him out to the large balcony. He remembers when, back in the summer, Eddie froze right up when he held his hand. He went so rigid, and scrubbed his hands on his shirt as soon as he could. Eddie wasn’t used to being touched like that, not properly. But tonight he follows willingly, his smile a little bemused but that doesn’t matter; he lets Richie lead him along, breaking into a short jog to keep up with his frantic strides.

Once they get outside, Richie breathes again. The count is reaching ten, and the balcony is milling with people who obviously had the same idea. “This way,” he says over his shoulder, tugging Eddie forward through the mass of people as the last seconds of 1996 tick away.

_Ten…Nine…Eight…_

“Here!” Richie gets them a spot by the railing, overlooking the main street. “Best seat in the house! Only the best for a first time guest, Eduardo!”

_Seven…Six…Five…_

Eddie looks out over the city, his hand white-knuckled on the railing due to the sheer height. His other hand is still in Richie’s, holding on tight.

_Four…_

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

_Three…_

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

_Two…_

“For making this a good year.”

_One…_

“Oh.”

_Happy New Year!_

Fireworks and streamers explode above them as everyone cheers. Richie’s usually one of them, so drunk he can barely see – but not tonight. Tonight he’s grinning wildly at the chaotic man waving their conjoined hands in the air and whooping the New Year in like it’s his freaking job, and he figures he’s okay with that. Because Eddie is fucking awesome, and Richie never wants him to go.

The couples around them start pulling each other in for the time-honoured tradition of a new year’s kiss, and Richie’s mood dampens. He might not have always kissed Connor at this exact moment, but there was always a kiss waiting for him when he got home. Now, watching the others, he smiles sadly with the knowledge that all he has this year is an empty bed and aspirin to look forward to. He looks back at Eddie and sees he’s watching. He’s still holding his hand, loose now but the connection stronger than expected. Eddie smiles at him, open and honest, and Richie’s stomach nosedives off the deep end. “Happy new year, Richie,” he says, still smiling.

He starts to reply, and gets to “Happy new y-” before Eddie reaches up and presses his lips to Richie’s.

It’s soft, chaste, a ‘nothing’ sort of kiss that’s usually reserved for cheeks or a familiar greeting when you’ve been in a relationship over a year, but it’s enough to make every system in Richie’s body shut the fuck down. He blames the hand on his face that titled him to Eddie, and how his own hand is being squeezed tight as he does it. It’s over in a second and Eddie pulls away with a casual, ‘wasn’t-that-normal-bro’ look on his face. Richie knows he takes a beat too long to recover but fuck, he’s only human and Eddie still seems too in the moment to notice.

“-ear,” he finishes, and that just makes Eddie laugh. So Richie really has no choice but to drag him into a hug, wrapping arms he’s been told are gangly and suffocating around Eddie’s slight body, and the amazing thing about that? Eddie hugs him _back_ , hands dropping from his face to squeeze his waist.

“Here’s to another year,” he mumbles into Richie’s shirt.

More fireworks erupt over their heads as they stand there, holding one another too tight and too long – but, then again, when was anything they did remotely normal?

Richie doesn’t even pull away when a camera bulb flashes in his face, but he does clock the guy taking it and corners him half an hour later when Eddie’s bitching to go home. He asks if he can send him the photo he took, and sure enough a black and white copy arrives at his apartment a week later, a drunken promise actually fulfilled for once.

The two of them are beaming, caught up in the fireworks and the noise and the hope for the coming year. They look like they belong in a classic film. Shit, they look really happy.

And that, obviously, is when Richie knows he’s fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:   
> 1) yes I know blue hair dye is not that easy and Richie would have to bleach his hair to get it that pale sssshhhh artistic licence  
> 2) Richie's Posse are all from other King books - Wendy's an easy one, but Susan is from Salem's Lot. I visualise Sandy as Mystic Pizza era Julia Roberts if that's a draw for anyone ;)  
> 3) Trying to find a 90s playlist that was actually 90s and not 00s whilst writing this was more difficult than it should have been so I guess 90s music just sucked. And I can say that because I lived that shit. 
> 
> Next part includes a double date, a reunion and an infamous (for the movie) rant. It's gonna be wild~


End file.
